


oh, to be unknitted

by Maarchi



Series: otbu-verse [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Animal Gore Mention, Blood and Injury, Burns, Canon What Canon, Corpse Jealousy, Dehydration, Episode: s01e03 Betrayer Moon, He ain't having fun in this one, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Chronic Pain, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It makes sense when you get to chapter 6, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Me: It's Free Real Estate, Not as sad as the tags make it seem I think, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pronoun Trigger Warning: Geralt referred to as 'it' in a dehumanising way for a bit, Referenced cannibalism, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, Timeline What Timeline, animal death mention, but we are gonna get there even if it doesn't seem like it at times, em dashes and horizontal lines: exist, light fluff, literally so glacial you'll get frostbite and freeze burns, referenced starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 88,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27435076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maarchi/pseuds/Maarchi
Summary: Jaskier just wants to die. Unfortunately, that appears to be more difficult than he thought.Then, the perfect opportunity strikes: a bloodthirsty Witcher, Butcher of Blaviken, sitting in the corner of a no-name tavern in Posada. Jaskier just can't wait to die by his hand. If only the Witcher was quicker about it, that'd be great.ON (temporary) HIATUS.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: otbu-verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072910
Comments: 569
Kudos: 623





	1. the song you know's begun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PersonyPepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First published fic, but I'm trying my best!!
> 
> The first chapter is mostly a prologue. The story/plot and character exploration aspects of this story become more prominent in the other chapters.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Self-harm (via dehydration, starvation, cutting, not described in-depth), suicidal thoughts and ideation, dehumanisation of Geralt (it gets complicated).
> 
> [Title from: Not Yet/Love Run by The Amazing Devil]

He thinks about it a lot.

At first he thinks he could just not drink. It's so easy to do, and easy to hide. It's not unusual to be pallid and parched with the stress that Oxenfurt's courses bring. Who would bat an eye at another student with dry skin and empty eyes?

It's more difficult than it seems. His throat burns and aches and he eats but he feels hollow. No tune sounds right. No tone he belts out works. His fingers barely scrape at the strings of his lute. He lasts a day, the first time.

' _Only because I have that assignment_ ', he justifies to himself. The poetry professor, who also teaches literature and lyric, has demanded that the students perform one of _their_ original pieces with _three_ different rhythms and styles. Frankly, it's ridiculous. He had to drink before he spoke, lest he wanted everyone to find out his voice had turned to gravel.

He tries again, a week after. He falls ill on the second day, and the school nurses force cup of water after cup of water down his throat. When he is cleared to go, he drowns his disappointment and sorrows in subpar ale and stolen wine.

It becomes a thing he just does. It's too difficult to reach the third day. But he can always last two. When he's mad or he's failed or he's in a particularly low moodor just because he needs it, he finds comfort in the dryness of his mouth and throat. The texture of his palate and tongue, how smooth his teeth are.

Starvation doesn't work out for him, either. It takes far longer. It's more noticeable, as well. His mathematics professor comments on it. Julian has been held back and lavished with praise for his horseshit of an assignment. He hates it. His handwriting is wobbly and numbers askew and not a single answer feels right. ' _But it's correct_ ', the professor says. ' _You look unwell_ ', he also says. He makes Julian go to the nurses. They give him cup after cup of water. They give him plate after plate of food.

He throws it up often enough, but eventually can eat a chicken with ferocious hunger, and they send him out. 

It's so annoying. Really, it is! Dying shouldn't be this hard. Everyone does it at some point. It'd be easier if he had the guts to steal a kitchen knife and rip apart his stomach or throat until the floor is stained red and body becomes as empty as his eyes. He wonders, how would his intestines look?

But he can't do it. He holds the knife in his hands and he cannot do it. He can't tell why. So he has a go at his arms and legs. It doesn't hurt. Not quite. The sting and gleaming beads of red red red _wake_ him. Every slice, every drop, it tugs him closer and closer to the surface until he can almost breathe. The waters are gentler, softer. As though he hasn't _already_ drowned.

It's even better when he's thirsty and starved.

It tides him over. Until he graduates.

He picks up drinking at bars more often, but he still uses the same knife to dull the aches the alcohol can't take away. His songs are darker, and duller, and worse. It's said heartache fuels the creative soul, but he must be the exception to that rule. He tries to make it work. Tries to find inspiration in the arms of anyone who'll have him, but that gets rarer by the day. He smiles and he flirts, he touches and he pleases, but...

His performance isn't the best. In many ways. Perhaps because he can fake passion less and less. He can't always get it up, and that's a turn off for most of his partners. Sometimes, they have spouses, who are so ready to kill him. He wants that, so much, so badly, to stay and feel their fists break his skull. To feel their tiny daggers cut him apart. But his partners would feel guilty. He can't do that to them. So he runs away and cries if his body has enough water to make tears.

It's so tiring. To have what he wants right there, _so close_ , but not be allowed to get it.

His knife rarely leaves his sleeve, but he wouldn't even think of pulling it on another. It's for him. Everyone's blades would, ideally, be for him. But he hasn't gotten mugged within the months he's graduated from Oxenfurt. He travels through forests, searching, and he is unlucky. No monster takes him, nor any average beast.

It's insulting.

* * *

He finds his way to Posada. He doesn't know where he is on the map or how he got there. Another one of his forest trips just deposited him on the side of a road and the toss of a coin decided his fate.

He doesn't sing when he arrives. Wastes his money on a room when instead he should be rotting on a forest floor, wolves slurping up his guts. But he craved the numbness that comes with shitty ale. He drank one after another. Until he's so tired he can only barely ask for lodgings, let alone take enough steps to walk to his doom.

He's so weak.

But he doesn't sleep. He lays open-eyed in his bed and he's drowning. In the tides, in the duvet, in the shitty straw mattress. His arms itch. His legs itch. But his fingers are so numb. He is buried six feet deep under rock and brick.

He composes the next afternoon. The rocks have lifted but the bricks have stayed, and they make a bright red pattern that curves around his limbs. He couldn't cut as deep as he wanted. The fine ladies of this establishment could find the blood spots and worry, or maybe get a scare. He can't do that to them.

So, he composes. And composes and composes. He is starved and thirsty when he leaves his room two days later. He has no good songs and no money, a shitty combination but it'll tide him over. Maybe he'll get a pear. It was the most memorable fruit he's been pelted with so far, and tasted so sweet.

He's parched but he can't order an ale, so he grunts and hums and clears his throat for almost an hour before he deems it fine enough for a mediocre performance.

As expected, it is not coin but food that gets thrown his way.

It'd be better if someone threw a knife. But no one did, and that's not fun nor okay, but he can fantasize about it. A little blade. It would glint as it flew through the air. Perhaps it could cut a straight line, stabbing right into his torn throat. He doubts he'd feel it. It aches so much already. Perhaps the knife would spin before it'd meet its mark. His heart or lungs. Head or spine. But it'd be more appropriate if it was his throat. Symbolism and all.

When lost in those dreams, he sees a man.

A thing that looks like a man, at least. It's dressed in weathered black armour. He makes his way towards it - for it is an it, he learns within seconds of further notice. A bloodthirsty Witcher. Its skin is so pale, it's practically translucent, giving Jaskoer ample view of the purplish veins. Jaskier steals a tankard of ale and sips at it before he approaches the beast. A smile is splitting his cheeks.

This. Now, this is what he's been waiting for! The perfect way to go. Follow the beast into the woods and have it stab a sword through him. Wouldn't even have to goad it, or beg. Perhaps he could ask for a ceremonial burning with his lute? Oh, yes. Perfect. _Perfect._

No one's going to care. They won't miss him, when they'll see him follow certain death and find he's not alive later. ' _Serves him right_ ,' they'd say. ' _The Witcher clearly bewitched him_ ,' others will lie. But it wouldn't have mattered. Jaskier would be dead. Joyously nonexistent and dead.

"I love how you just..."—oh great, _now_ he's struggling for words? Of all times, opportunities and places?— "...sit in the corner and brood." At the very least his natural penchant for annoyance hasn't left him yet. It's what he needs. Exactly what he needs. If he enrages the beast, he'll be speared on the tip of a silver sword before his heart dares to beat again and he'll be dead and it'll be glorious.

The Witcher, whose eyes had been averted, blinks at him with a golden gaze, pupils thinning into sharp slits instantly. Jaskier feels scorched. He feels _excited._

"I'm here to drink alone," says the Witcher. Its white hair is tangled and almost gray with dirt, with the strangest hint of transparency in the cleaner clumps. The color rings a bell at the back of Jaskier's mind. Not a bell of warning. Anticipation. Knowing he's had a good set, and the end is close, and that applause will roar. How he missed that feeling!

"You know, no one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance." Jaskier's fingers rub the chunk of bread in his hand, the other tightly gripping his tankard. Jaskier launches himself into the seat directly facing the Witcher. It has rectangular, rounded features. "No one except for you. Come on, you don't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting."

Jaskier twirls the bit of bread, then bites off a stale chunk.

The Witcher shows no reaction. Why would it? It doesn't feel anything, after all. Well, anything except anger and a thirst for violence and blood. If one can call that an emotion. Gods, he can't wait to die by its sword. It's easy on the eyes, too. He deserves a death most torturous, with horrors in his eyes, but he'll take this small mercy. A gorgeous monster killing him by ways of its trade and the swords of human knights sounds like a poetic end.

Jaskier gestures wildly with his arms, tipping over the Witcher's empty tankard with his own. Fuck, he's hoped it was full. Then he would've made a mess, and the Witcher would be quicker to anger.

"Come on. You must have some review for me. Three words or less."

He sits and he waits. _Patience_. Still no reaction from the beast. Gods, he will have to go all-out, won't he? Put some effort into it? Which, fine, it is _his_ death, after all. Should work for it, maybe. But he's doing the thing a favor, too! It likes to slaughter and kill, and Jaskier wants to be slaughtered and killed. What is there not to like about this deal?

"They don't exist."

The Witcher's rumble wakes him from his frustrations. Fuck, his fingers itch for his knife. His skin is too tight and he wants to hit something. Break his knuckles, tear his skin. But he's had shit luck with dying, so he can't, because he needs functional hands to play music if he has the misfortune of living, and if he can't play or strum, then...

"What don't exist?"

"The creatures in your song."

Because of course that's what this thing would focus on. It doesn't even look put-upon or slightly irritated. No twitching brows or eyelids, no bared fangs or stiff posture. It looks more relaxed than it has any right to be. _Fine_. Jaskier can be more annoying, no problem. So long as it ends with him dead.

"And how would—oh!" Jaskier makes sure his grin resembles Valdo Marx's, that smug asshole. Always _better_ , always useful and _worthy_ , always what Jaskier should have been. "Oh, _fun_. White hair, big ol' loner, two... lethal-looking swords. I know who you are."

And he _does_ , because it's finally clicked.

The Butcher of Blaviken rises from its seat, armour blending into the shadows behind it. It looks like it's emerging from a veil of darkness. A Reaper, sent from the void. Just for Jaskier. _Just for Jaskier_. It grabs its swords, it grabs its coin pouch, and with a grimace finally breaking the mask of apathy, it turns to leave.

Good. Jaskier wants to die, not cause a traumatising scene for the other patrons.

Before Jaskier can follow the garrotter and get his doom, he notices something glint on the table. A single, solitary coin. Must have fallen out of the beast's coin purse. It… worries Jaskier. Witchers can read minds, can they not? Like sorcerers. And they can smell what you want, what you feel. Is this the beast's way of saying it will only kill him for a price? They are _hired_ hunters, after all.

Fuck. Jaskier doesn't have so much as a coin on him.

That can be arranged later. He can't let his one good opportunity out of sight. Jaskier grabs the golden coin and books it after the Butcher.

"You're that Witcher! Geralt of Rivia!" Jaskier continues. He follows after the Butcher.

So does someone else.

" _I have a job for ya. I beg you! _"__

____

* * *

__

The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, does not kill him. It does not kill him nor the elves nor the devil. Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, who slaughtered half a town, _protects_ him. Tells the elves to let him go, not to kick or hit him. But it welcomes fists raised against it. It speaks, calmly and compassionately, and it is ready to die itself, but _it protects Jaskier_. Says to let him go, to let him live.

__

Jaskier hates it so much.

__

He hates it and he is confused by it. The elves let them go and they apologize. Not in so many words, but Filavandrel, _fucking King of Elves_ , gives Jaskier his lute and pats Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, on the shoulders. And they are let go.

__

He hates that beast and the elves. He was _so close_. So close to sweet fucking release. So close to the void. Why can't he just fucking die? Does the universe love to watch him have his goal in his palm only for it to be whisked away before he grasps it?

__

In petty and absolutely worthless revenge, the first song he composes on that lute is a horrid jingle that grates on the Butcher's sensitive ears and vilifies the elves—it's what they deserve for not pulling through with their shit. Sure, he gets them. He understands them better now, and he has a respect for them he hasn't had before. But he's also furious and he wants to cry but he's only had a single sip of ale and he is shredding the lute strings enough for his fingertips to bleed, and for now, that is enough.

__

He continues to follow the Witcher. Surely, it must have had some ulterior motive for sparing him and the elves. For giving the elves all the coin it got for the contract.

__

* * *

__

Jaskier really would like to know who's decided to officially name Geralt of Rivia the Butcher of Blaviken, because that title is the most false advertisement that Jaskier has ever heard in his thrice-damned life.

__

Geralt is _patient_. Geralt is _soft_. Geralt _refuses to kill Jaskier_ regardless of what he does. If Jaskier was anyone else he'd be charmed, but, frankly, he feels deceived and betrayed.


	2. these hands that hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story sloooowly going forward. This is, after all, more of a character exploration. Not that much overall plot here.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Mentions of animal death, animal organs, raw meat, and some very brief references to cannibalization.
> 
> [Title from: Pray by The Amazing Devil]

The first few weeks after the elves, Jaskier thinks it's a fluke. Hopes so. Wishes for it, and prays to the stars and Melitele and whichever other god might be out there.

Jaskier does his best to break the beast. 'It shouldn't be difficult', he had thought. Like he had thought about not drinking, about not eating, how he hoped splitting his throat with a knife would be. He doesn't know why he expected it to go any better than those times. The damn thing is impossible to annoy into murder.

The Witcher travels a lot, as Witchers are known to do. Jaskier has been traveling a lot, too. Both in silence, he assumes. But when they're together, Jaskier can't help but prattle on and on. A deliberate choice, too, for he needs this beast to crack and rage and blast Jaskier to pieces. It's still for the sake of comfort, too. Jaskier talks about the many myths he read in Oxenfurt. Literature lessons were often about that. Analysing myths and lore, learning how to elevate their own stories to that level, and what in that ascension might be lost.

He's in the middle of telling Geralt a partially-fictional overdramatization of his class' attempts to realistically simulate which versions their story could take on throughout the years should they have published it a century ago, and then his eyes focus on a single dandelion fluff fluttering through the air.

"Oh!" he exclaims. The rocks under his boots crunch and clink as he stomps down and wiggles about, turning to find the blooms. He excitedly strums his lute, then slings it back. The Butcher and its horse don't stop, but they decidedly slow down. Jaskier runs towards a white-yellow patch off the road. It's in front of the trees and it's small, and there is a mix of flowers with full yellow blooms, mixed heads of petals and fluff, and stalks whose fluff had almost entirely disappeared.

"Look, Witcher!" says Jaskier as he grabs a handful of stalks. He puts a protective hand over the heads, and runs towards the horse and the beast, and thrusts his finds into the Butcher's pale face. Golden eyes give him a disinterested glance. Golden eyes, translucent skin, pale white hair… "You guys could be twins!" Jaskier jests.

That catches the Witcher's attention, although Jaskier isn't sure in what way.

"All yellow and white. I should weave you a lovely little crown. The green would be a little out of place, but it would make for a rejuvenating accent color." Jaskier lifts one of the dandelions, gently lifts it and closes one eye. He pretends to study and examine how the dandelion looks against the Witcher's form. The white would get lost in his hair, sure, but it would also cause little bits of fluff to fly from his head, and the green would bring some extra deathly pallor to the Witcher's sickly complexion. Like a god of death. "Yeah. Yeah! What do you say? A little break and some beauty treatment?"

"Hnng," grunts the Witcher, a single fang bared by its sneer. Jaskier curls the dandelion stem between his fingers. He'd love to capture the sound of breaking stems. They'd make for wonderful effects in a song.

"I mean, not that you aren't already gorgeous, but there can never be enough flowers in one's life." At that, the Witcher turns to glare at him. Facing him wholly. Jaskier grins, moves the dandelions in front of himself, and jumps.

With an effort that could pull a lung muscle—if they are a thing—Jaskier blows the fluff off of the dandelions and directly at the Witcher's face. Kinda. _Somewhat_. Most of it hits his neck, but enough white particles make their way to the Witcher's mouth, nose and eyes and hair that Jaskier feels vindicated and proud of himself.

The Witcher growls.

Surely, such a patronizing and annoying offense should warrant a death sentence. There's no reason why it wouldn't!

A foot makes its way out of the stirrup and into Jaskier's shoulder. It barely nudges him, really, with a little sting. Hell, Jaskier has had worse pains when he walked into door frames or table corners. Still, he jumps back as if burned, gasping.

"Watch the lute!" he yells. He unslings the beautiful thing and hugs her close, caressing her soundboard and ribs. "Oh, my baby. My love. Did the big scary Witcher hurt you? Oh, gods, is that a scrape? Is that a scrape?!"

The Witcher makes a sound, between a bark and some sort of a huff, and Jaskier catches a proper glimpse of the Witcher's fangs and far too sharp canines.

The swords stay sheathed. 

Jaskier, feeling frustration bubble within him, makes a dramatic show of offenses and loudly proclaims the Witcher uncultured, and begins a lecture about the history of lutes in revenge. His voice is beyond hoarse that night and he can feel a welt forming inside his mouth. The Witcher looks serene, basking in the flames of their bonfire.

Jaskier wants to jump into it.

_Everything's so fucking unfair._

* * *

Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, Butcher of Blaviken is _fuckall_ liked across the Continent. They got chased out of five towns the first month they're together, Jaskier had unofficially taken over the finances to avoid extreme overcharging by the third, and by the fifth Jaskier has a cycle of six songs he can never play in taverns but that are fantastic for releasing his anger at the treatment. He plays those often when he and the Witcher camp, but rarely sings the words. The first time he does, the Witcher throws a freshly-roasted strip of rabbit meat _into_ Jaskier's mouth. Fucking Witchers and their unfairly advanced skillsets.

 _Toss A Coin_ doesn't have many companion songs yet, but Jaskier is slowly getting there. He weaves it into other cycles, hides it between songs that are always well-received and bawdy, and sometimes he gets the patrons to stomp their feet to the rhythm. Other times…other times, Jaskier wishes they threw shit heavier than potatoes and bread scraps. At least then he could at least have enjoyed the 'might finally die' factor.

He tries to make the other songs a bit more subtle. Uses parallels between Witchers and the code of Knights. Speaks of glinting swords and rescued damsels, who the Witcher sets free so they could be with people they loved. 

Jaskier turns the Witcher to the pinnacle of heroism. The Witcher hates it. Doesn't make an effort to stop Jaskier. It's frustrating.

In a fit of utter desperation, Jaskier takes it further. 

The Witcher seems like a cold, distant, 'lone wolf' sort of being, and so Jaskier hopes that invasion of private space will do the trick.

Jaskier, technically, likes being touched. It's warm. It's soft. Full of camaraderie. Except that no one's ever touched him with those intentions in mind, before, and whenever someone's hand finds its way to his shoulder, Jaskier can only think of his father sternly telling him _'keep your back straight, boy, or else…'_. When someone touches his cheek, his mind flashes back to the many times he's been slapped, and can feel phantom rings from his mother's hand cut across his face. Hugs make him think of spilled ink and stolen songs, ripped paper and his secret poems spilling from others' lips.

So, Jaskier likes touch, but he doesn't.

But he must annoy the Witcher into murder, or into dumping him into a swarm of nekkers, so he does it.

The first time he touches the Witcher after he makes this plan, they're in Velen. Jaskier had gone off to a little running creek they're camped by to fill their waterskins, whilst the Witcher skinned a deer and prepared meat for the fire. When Jaskier returns, he's met with a frightful sight—the Witcher with a bloodied face, gloveless hands and sharp claws, digging into what looks like a dark liver. Jaskier feels his heart collapse in on itself.

"Geralt!" he screams, because what the fresh fucking hell. The waterskins fall from his arms and he stumbles over to the Witcher, who somehow hadn't noticed Jaskier coming. Its eyes are wide, pupils so thin and sharp Jaskier almost can't see them. A piece of liver sticks out between its lips. It quickly disappears as the Witcher gulps it down, and Jaskier doesn't understand how the bastard doesn't choke. " _What the fu_ —what are you—you're gonna get sick!" Jaskier flails. "I might not be a healer but Oxenfurt does offer some tips and tricks and one of them was to never ever eat raw fucking meat, _Witcher_ , what the shit! How are you supposed to do your Witchering when you are bedridden? Oh, Melitele's tits, what the fuck—"

"Witcher's don't get sick," says the Witcher. Jaskier stops in the middle of a panicked jump. Stomps his feet, throws out his arms. His mouth is agape enough that he'd probably fit his fist in there. "We need raw meat."

Jaskier's mouth snaps shut and his eyebrows rise, strained. Okay. A revelation. Raw meat. Witchers eat raw meat. Sure, why not? Okay. Alright. They're already weird enough. What's some more weird bullshit added on top? However...

"And must you look like a barbarian whilst you eat it?" Jaskier takes out one of his handkerchiefs and wets it with water from one of the waterskins. He stomps over to the Witcher, who sits as if frozen. So as to avoid having too many feelings about it, Jaskier slaps one of his hands to the Witcher's neck and then roughly wipes and rubs at its face with the wet handkerchief. "Honestly! Would it kill you to cut it into smaller chunks so you don't look like an infant who just started learning how to eat on their own?"

The Witcher grumbles and growls. It's low. Visibly rattles the Witcher's chest, armour trembling. Jaskier can feel it in his hands, his arms, a tingling feeling crawling up his arm. He takes the handkerchief away from the Witcher's face, but decides that he shouldn't stop being an annoyance just yet. He moves his hand from the Witcher's bare neck to its shoulder, and leans on it fully.

"Ughh, will that wash out, do you think?" Jaskier wiggles the handkerchief, examining the red stains on it. Of course it'll wash out. He's used it plenty on himself, when he didn't want his beautiful chemises to suffer from everlasting blood-brown stains. "Anyways, how come it is only now I find out about this? Have you been starving yourself on my account?"

The Witcher grimaces. Its face isn't wholly clean, but it's better than it was before. Jaskier starts to clean it again. The Witcher's wrinkles deepen and its eyebrows scrunch together, lips slowly turning to a scowl. The barest tip of a fang peaks out. It has a little bloodstain. 

It could be Jaskier's. It _should_ be Jaskier's bright red blood, fresh and still warm. Maybe from his neck. Or perhaps the Witcher could have bitten his hand just now. Ripped his wrist to shreds, continued to devour the liver whilst Jaskier bled out, cast aside. The Witcher could then eat _him_. What a fate. What a lovely fate.

"Do remember to grill some bits for me, aye? And try not to make your face dirtier, I'd like to keep at least some handkerchiefs clean!" With that, Jaskier, pats the Witcher's shoulder a few times, and goes to wash the cloth. It has the slightest enchantment on it to make washing it easy as a breeze, and it's back to snow-white within minutes.

This strategy didn't quite work out well, but perhaps it's about building up to that moment where everything snaps. The Witcher must have a breaking point. It _must._

So Jaskier continues with the touching. It's not as difficult as he's expected. Perhaps it's because he's the one who always initiates it? He's not sure, but he starts to revel in it.

Jaskier congratulates the Witcher after it finishes its contracts, as usual, but puts a hand on its shoulder or slings an arm around its neck in a mockery of a hug. When he returns from shopping to see the Witcher haggling with the innkeep and struggling hard, he bounces up to it and leans on its shoulder. Those weren't the biggest changes, however.

The biggest difference was how Jaskier acted when the Witcher returned from a contract. As annoying as Jaskier wants to be, as much as he wants the Witcher's sword to slice him apart, Jaskier does have some consideration for proper manners and the Witcher's privacy. Before, he'd adhere to them. Now, desperation fueling him with fervor, he simply cannot leave the Witcher to its own devices.

He insists on being taught how to suture wounds and clean them, what herbs do what and which spirits are for drinking and which for disinfecting. The Witcher takes a month before it parts any knowledge on him, and another ten days before it allows Jaskier to tend to its wounds. Jaskier still doesn't know how the hell he's alive, but after patching up the Witcher's back for the sixth time in half as many months, he settles comfortably into his new role. It's a great opportunity for teasing, as well.

"Oh, by the gods, what were you even doing?" Jaskier asks one memorable night. The Witcher had returned to their room covered in the tiniest, thinnest of scrapes and slices all over. Its face was dusted with dry mud, leaves and twigs sticking out from——absolutely everywhere. From underneath the pauldrons and the breastplate, from between the belts, little pieces of green stubbornly stuck in the metal studs of the Witcher's brigandine…

"Hunting," says the Witcher. Its eyes were uncharacteristically stiff. Eyebrows methodically and purposefully relaxed. Witchers might not blush, but Jaskier has the slightest inkling the Witcher is embarrassed. Which is a notion that Jaskier quickly dismisses, because Witchers don't feel. Even the Witcher says so. But, still.

"Hunting what, exactly?" Jaskier springs from his seat on the bed. He slams his pencil and notebook onto the little nightstand of their room and stomps to the Witcher. "You've fought actual forest spirits and brought less trees back! Has the Eve of the Thinning Veil manifested itself three months early? Because besides that, I don't think there's any reason for you to dress up as a dryad!"

The Witcher doesn't answer, nor move. Even when Jaskier starts to rip out the sticks and twigs and leaves and—ugh—occasional larva from its clothes. 

"I didn't even order a bath! We don't have money for a bath!" Jaskier whines, pushing the Witcher towards the bed. He has no illusions about his strength. If the Witcher doesn't want to move, it won't move. But it does. On the bed it sits, unmoving and unnaturally stiff. Like a trunk. "You said this would be an easy contract." Jaskier grumbles, finger harshly poking the Witcher's cheek.

"It was," the Witcher answers. Jaskier laughs.

"Oh, really? Why have you brought half the forest with you, then?" Jaskier tears away a particularly big twig that got itself stuck between two other sticks and the Witcher's belts. Alright, the armour's coming off. Jaskier doesn't stop to think about why the Witcher isn't stopping him beyond a few little grumbles. 

"It was a godling," says the Witcher. Jaskier's hands find their way to the Witcher's hair. It's full of knots, leaves, and sticks. Jaskier pays no mind to the Witcher's rumbling growls when he pulls at one thing or the other, nor does he make note of the little smooth nubs his fingers glide over. The texture of the white locks, after days of not washing it, is akin to rotting hay.

"Anything with 'god' in their name sounds like quite an issue," says Jaskier. "What are they?"

"Mischievous beings. They're small inconveniences at worst."

"A small inconvenience got you to look like that?"

The Witcher keeps quiet. Jaskier chuckles under his breath, but decides not to dwell on it. This is a perfect opportunity for something else. He's been planning that for a few days.

"Alright, be like that then. But, if you're not going to tell me anything, I request a recompense." Satisfied with the look of the Witcher's hair, Jaskier combs his hand through it one last time before he goes towards his self-care satchel. The Witcher doesn't pay him any mind. Takes off its boots instead. Jaskier fishes out a little vial of clear oil. "I had a wonderful talk with a healer a few towns back, you see? And she mentioned that chamomile oil does wonders for pent up stress. You make for a most perfect subject to test if she'd been telling the truth."

"You are not putting that on me," says the Witcher.

"Yes, yes I am," says Jaskier.

He does. And lives.

The Witcher refuses to bare its back to Jaskier right off the bat, so they begin the session with the Witcher stiff as a rock between Jaskier's thighs. He carefully massages the oil into the Witcher's shoulders, chest and stomach, using just a bit more pressure than if it was a normal human. Jaskier takes his sweet, sweet time. If he drags this out, the Witcher will definitely catch on. Or maybe lose its patience, first. It's got nice, sharp claws... 

Nope. The Witcher eventually goes close-eyed and lax. Which Jaskier is not happy about. He even gets bold enough to move his hands up to its throat and face! So close to its sharp, sharp teeth. If he were to lean down just a little bit, maybe he could get Geralt to rip his throat with them. Witchers eat raw meat, after all. Maybe Geralt would be so kind as to rip him apart and devour him? Even if he has to start at the liver. Jaskier will bleed out eventually, right?

_Not tonight._

Apparently, once the Witcher relaxes, it cannot be fucked to un-relax. It even follows Jaskier's request to turn over.

Its back is broad and vast, and Jaskier holds back a dejected sigh. Why won't the damn thing just kill him? Sure, it might prefer more diplomatic routes, but for fuck's sake, no one's patience lasted this long before. What is this?

Most unfortunately, two weeks later, the Witcher agrees to a massage again. And again and again.

Only on the fourth time does Jaskier realize the Witcher never permits Jaskier to massage its legs as well. 

It takes only a little while before he learns why. 


	3. scar skin and ripping bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF. Pure fluff. A softie.
> 
> Alternative title: Lore Of The Shared Baths and Beds
> 
> Trigger Warnings: References to/Implied chronic pain
> 
> Also, everyone please show your respects to dearest PersonyPepper bc without her this chapter would have been a lot less legible :D  
> (Edit: Changed the link in the end notes, should work now!)  
> [Title from: New York Toch Song by The Amazing Devil]

It begins much like the chamomile massages did: in a tavern room, overpriced and stuffy, when Jaskier works on his lyrics and the Witcher is running around in the woods. 

The Witcher returns from a supposed 'easy hunt' in a state that strikes a kind of fear into Jaskier that Jaskier hasn't felt in a long time. His mind blanks, 'oh no ohno _ohno_ '. It's in a right state—hunched forward, with trembling knees. Jaskier throws his lute aside and launches himself at the Witcher, who's so gone it actually leans onto Jaskier the second his hands land on its shoulders.

"Geralt, Geralt," Jaskier whispers. His voice doesn't sound real. Since when has it been so weak?

His hands wrap around The Witcher's cheeks. He tries to meet the Witcher's eyes, but they're pitch black and out of focus and struggling to stay open. The Witcher is covered in black ichor and dark red fluid, which Jaskier belatedly recognizes as the characteristic purplish-red of Witcher blood. The Witcher's veins are pronounced and dark, starkly contrasting with its pallid skin. 

"Witcher, what happened?"

Jaskier has seen The Witcher like this before. Hopped up high on potions, covered in mucus, gore, and other monstery fluids. But it's never been so— _not there_ , so to speak. It grumbled and complained and chastised Jaskier for picking the wrong medical supplies. Up until the point when Jaskier actually got them figured out, at which point Geralt insulted his sutures and style of brewing.

Jaskier feels the Witcher's heavy breathing rattle both their bodies. It is leaning on him more and more and more, and it must be trying to ease its pain. Jaskier wants to jab at it, see if he can find an injury, but he stops before his hands can move to do that. That would _hurt_ the Witcher. Fuck that.

"Okay, okay, just. Fuck. Follow me, alright?" Jaskier babbles out. He drags the Witcher to the bed and cares fuckall about the dirtied sheets. It is as the Witcher sits that there's a hiss of pain and the trembling of its legs intensifies.

So. Pants off, then.

Jaskier decides to first take off the Witcher's upper body armour. Mostly because that'd also make removing the pants easier, high-hiked as they are. The Witcher is utmost unhelpful as Jaskier undresses it, but it's understandable. Jaskier still doesn't know where all that blood came from, or what happened, or what injuries he might face. 

He makes quick work of it. The Witcher is twitching under his ministrations, and Jaskier's heart hurts to see it.

Then the pants come off.

Legs do _not_ look like that. Okay, they kind of do, but. Not exactly like that. Jaskier knows for a fact the muscles are elsewhere, if only because Oxenfurt's ensured that if you enter the arts, you _really_ enter the arts, and Jaskier has sketched too many muscled thighs to forget where the tendons and shadows are supposed to go. That is not where they are on Geralt. What the fuck?

Jaskier's mind might have stopped working, but his reflexes are still going. He unclasps and unties the Witcher's boots and fully removes all of the Witcher's lower garments, sans its sullied braies. 

Jaskier coudln't even compare the Witcher's legs to anything, because they didn't quite resemble any leg he's ever seen. They had distinct human shapes in there. Thighs, shins, feet, ankles, knees—everything was there, but twisted and different. The feet especially, with weirdly-angles ankles, an arch that hurt to look at, and thicker padding at the toes and front of the sole.

As though the Witcher was meant to tiptoe. 

Jaskier stuffs his hand into the Witcher's boot and feels around. It's not like the insides of his, and compared to the size of the Witcher's foot, it must be pinching it constantly. Not only that, but it's shape distributes the pressure of walking along the whole foot. It changes the Witcher's gait entirely.

Fucking hell. The Witcher's back and legs must be killing it. No wonder it rides the horse all the time. Jaskier won't ever complain about that again—it hasn't earned him his death, and it's insensitive as shit, so it's just. Best to stop with it.

What is he to do now? The Witcher is covered in several foul substances and he's bare and in pain. Think, Jaskier, think.

There's not much to be done with the pain. Chamomile can only do so much—if anything. But the Witcher takes its baths long and blisteringly hot. Hot baths are also good for pains. Yeah. That first.

Jaskier arranges the Witcher under the covers, strokes its shoulder and whispers promises, and then he leaves the room.

The innkeep flinches away from Jaskier. He wants to overcharge for the bath. Gives a price perhaps five times what it should be. Jaskier glances around the room. It's late, and few people are here. Fewer even awake, judging by the many hands flattened on countertops.

Jaskier's knife leaves his sleeve and presses up against the innkeep's throat.

"Twenty-three orens. Bath, boiling hot. Now," he orders, voice harsh and deep.

The innkeep becomes agreeable, and promises a bath in half an hour. Jaskier smiles. He wishes he had Geralt's pointed teeth. He'd love to scare people with them.

Jaskier isn't finished here. He sprints out of the tavern and towards the village's apothecary. It takes some haggling and almost the whole half an hour he's got, but Jaskier manages to get his hands on a box of a wax-like substance. The healer promises that it's a numbing concoction powerful enough to numb the Witcher's pain, though Jaskier suspects it might have been an exaggeration on her part. He _did_ run into her shop as she was closing with a wild look in his eyes and the tip of a knife poking out of his sleeve.

Back at the tavern, Jaskier barges in through their room's door. Geralt is curled on the bed exactly where Jaskier had left it. He runs the backs of his fingers across the Witcher's cheek. It's as much for his comfort as it is a distraction for the Witcher. 

"The bath should be ready soon, okay?" Jaskier speaks softly. He opens the box of numbing cream, tries to make everything slow and gentle for his Witcher. "The healer said this should help numb the pain. Can you tell by the smell if it'll work?"

Jaskier waits on his knees, fingers clutched tight around the box. His knuckles were almost as pale as Geralt's hair.

A particularly loud breath leaves Geralt. One moment. Two. Jaskier almost whoops, realizing that it was the softest ' _uhuh_ ' he's ever heard. This is good. Very good. He didn't waste their coin on some bullshit.

Someone knocks at the door. Jaskier clasps his hands on Geralt's ears.

"Yes?" he calls out.

"Your bath is ready," answers a voice, likely one of the barmaids. "Door at the end of the hallway, two rooms down."

"Thank you! We'll get there shortly."

Jasker wraps the Witcher in the blanket, spiraling it up and down to hide its legs. He hesitates with his arms already under it. Fuck. He didn't think about how heavy it was. Nor about his own meager form compared to it. Jaskier and the Witcher are almost of the same height, but whereas the Witcher is all dense muscle, Jaskier is...a twig. He took on a bit more weight, as the Witcher practically forces him to eat—by throwing meat scraps and bread into his mouth and choking him with them, no less—but he still walks and dances around a lot.

"Fuck, sorry, okay, you might have to help me a bit here," Jaskier apologizes. The Witcher's feet touch the floor and Jaskier steadies his knees. The Witcher groans as it rises. It leans on Jaskier, but it's unavoidable that some of its weight must be supported by its legs. "Yes, good, good, okay, now let's go, come on, the bath's not far from us."

If Jaskier hadn't been so frazzled, perhaps he would have noticed the Witcher wasn't even all that heavy.

Jaskier rambles his apologies and encouragements the whole way towards the bath. It's a fairly spacious room, all things considered. Dark, cracked wood, with a vague scent of mold. The basin is absolutely massive, and surrounded by smaller buckets just as full of water. It's difficult to breathe, with the steam and heat. Figures that the bath would have its own fireplace.

Without much preamble, Jaskier undresses the Witcher. It's more of a hassle than he expected, as the Witcher keeps a hand on his shoulder to steady itself. It lowers itself into the bath with great difficulty. At the very least most of the gore and grime the Witcher brought in had been on its clothes. The water in the basin itself will stay clean-ish for a good enough while.

Jaskier sorts through different rags that hang about the washroom and grabs the softest ones he can find. The Witcher seems dead to the world.

Despite the heat, Jaskier feels ice shards pick at his heart. This does, however, explain some things. Why the Witcher never takes off its pants around Jaskier, but doesn't have any issues being topless. Why the Witcher refuses to replace its torn boots, unless it is that shoemaker in Kaedwen that smiles at the Witcher and doesn't overcharge them. But, _fuck_ , the Witcher always has the boots on around Jaskier. It always stays awake or meditates when Jaskier succumbs to slumber. Has it given its feet a rest since meeting Jaskier? A _proper_ rest?

Oh, Jaskier is so learning proper massaging techniques this winter. And acupuncture. There's a brothel near Oxenfurt that also functions as a spa. He bets he'll be able to talk the workers into teaching him, especially since he can earn them coin on drunken orgy nights by attracting folk with spirited and bawdy music. 

Yeah, _yeah_. He'll learn how to do all that. Why not? He's not got much better shit to do. Unless he's picked up like a stray by someone of interest, although throughout the winters, that has yet to happen. And the Witcher, well. 

It's frustrating and uncooperative and an asshole, frankly. Paradoxically, the idea of it gone or in pain makes Jaskier's stomach flip. He doesn't think about it, but it's as good a motivator as any.

Back by the basin and the Witcher, Jaskier carefully dips the rags into the steaming hot water and gently wipes the Witcher's face. A silence stretches on.

Jaskier can't breathe in it. 

"You're gonna get a nice, good soak until you're wrinkled like a raisin," he starts to ramble. "Then we get you back to our room and I'm using that numbing thing on you. No ifs or buts."

"No," says the Witcher. Jaskier will bet his own right arm that the Witcher was just saying that to be contrary. Jaskier flicks its nose.

"No 'no's either, my good sir," he chastises. He rubs at a black spot on the Witcher's neck with the rag before giving up and using the very tip of his finger nail to scrape it off. _Ugh_. He drops the entire rag into the bucket. Fishing it out turns out to be a nightmare, because the water is still fucking hot. The Witcher takes pity on him after a particularly loud hiss of pain. It grabs the cloth and hands it to him. Jaskier gingerly grabs it between his fingers. Then he throws it over the Witcher's eyes.

Time to work on the hair. _Hot rag_. Oh joy.

"While I am absolutely going to offer riveting commentary, as per usual, I would first like to know what the hell is going on?" Jaskier says. "Not that I haven't come to some conclusions by myself. I am not an idiot, after all, but, still. All I really know is that your legs look about as painful as a splinter under a toe nail."

The Witcher hums. Jaskier tugs at its hair through the cloth.

"Whether you're an idiot or not depends on what conclusions you've got," it says at last.

"How dare!" Jaskier gasps. He slaps the Witcher's shoulder. 

"Your reaction tells a lot."

"My reaction tells that you're an ass!" Indignant, Jaskier smothers the Witcher's hair and scratches its head through the rag. He's not able to keep up the charade for long. The Witcher seems to sense it. They're both tired. "Really, Geralt, are you alright?"

Jaskier doesn't often use the Witcher's name. He just—most times, it doesn't work. But in moments like these, moments that feel tired and heavy and soft, it slips through his lips on its own. Like it cannot go unsaid.

The Witcher doesn't say anything for a while. Jaskier drops the rag back into the bucket, and the Witcher fishes it out for him.

"I mean it, Geralt," Jaskier says. "I'm not—I won't tell anyone about it, if that's your worry. It doesn't change anything. But, just. Does it hurt often? Does it hurt a lot?"

"It's a Witcher's life, Bard," the Witcher rumbles. It sounds like its throat is full of rocks and gravel. Hell, it might be, with how it looked when it came back.

"They wouldn't hurt if you walked like your anatomy says you're supposed to."

"People already think I'm a monster."

"Exactly!" Jaskier says far too harshly. He slides forward across the floor, faces the Witcher. It lazily opens its eyes at him. "They're already wrong! They already treat you wrong! So what if they see your legs? It's not—it won't change anything."

"Yes, _it would_ ," says the Witcher. Its face finally changes; stern, angry, frustrated, given up, tired. Resigned in its acceptance. "I'm the only one with legs like this. There are _Witchers_ who view me as a dangerous abomination."

Gold eyes stare into Jaskier's. The fight leaves him slowly, words dying on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't know what to say to that. Something niggles Jaskier, at the back of his mind. Something he doesn't want to think about or examine, closely or at a distance. He hides it away as a sadness washes over him. He sighs.

Jaskier moves behind the Witcher again, slowly going back to washing its hair. When his fingers reach its head, he cradles it. He lowers his forehead down to its. Holds it there for a few seconds. It's a hug. It also isn't.

"I'm sorry," he says.

The Witcher grunts at him.

With a deep, steadying breath, Jaskier leans back and places a bucket directly under the Witchers hair, long strands spreading in the water.

"In my second year at Oxenfurt, we were working on expanding our vocabulary so our poetry would have more variety," Jaskier starts as he cards his fingers through the Witcher's hair, breaking up the knots. "We were supposed to write a story we always wanted to write, but then change some of the words we used for their synonyms. It was supposed teach us the power of the right word, too. Same meaning, different effect, and all that." Jaskier stood up and looked around for some soap or oil. "One of my classmates, a Niklas or something, had decided to write the hottest erotica his mind could conjure up. The opening line was, ' _Harry could not believe it was possible to have such a rotund ass'_ —"

* * *

Jaskier and the Witcher wobble back into their room two hours later. The Witcher had almost burned the bath down trying to use _Igni_ to heat up the water it lounged in. Jaskier understood why it wanted to prolong the bath. Still, he hadn't appreciated it much when the burst of flame almost stole his eyebrows.

He sits the Witcher on the bed and goes about preparing everything. He turns the pillows over to ignore the dirt the Witcher had left on them. The blanket, which they used as a makeshift towel to dry off, he balances on their bedrolls and the Witcher's swords. It refrains from making a comment, but Jaskier can feel the Witcher's disapproving glare drill a hole into his back.

Then the numbing cream comes out. It has a faint smell of bluebells and sunflower seeds, and is mostly clear. Jaskier also finds its texture to be strange; kind of like wax, but glistening, wet, and soft enough he could dig in his fingers and scoop it out.

"You just lay back and relax!" Jaskier smiles, hiking the legs of the Witcher's braies higher up to expose its thighs. Jasker traces his fingers along a tendon. The Witcher grumbles and lays down. It always acts so put-upon when Jaskier offers another massage, but without fail strips its torso bare and gets on the bed, waiting for Jaskier to bring out the chamomile.

Jaskier doesn't know what the Witcher wants from him, if anything at all. He's an utter annoyance, and the Witcher says it often enough, but doesn't do anything to stop Jaskier. Sometimes, Jaskier laughs about it. Sometimes, Jaskier cries about it.

Jaskier scoops three fingers' worth of the numbing cream-wax-mixture, and goes to massage Geralt's legs. The Witcher's skin has always been fascinating. It seems so _thin_. Thin enough that if Jaskier really strains his eyes, he can see the muscle's individual fibers contract and stretch. He can see the distending veins, almost lavender against the white-gray complexion. It was one thing to look, and another to touch.

For one, it was unnaturally smooth. Like gliding his hand along expensive polished wood. Even the scars tended to be flatter than on humans.

"Do you have days like this often?" Jaskier asks after a too-long moment of silence. The Witcher hums—but it feels _different._ Sounds like the hums of Jaskier's teachers and classmates at Oxenfurt, when they needed a moment to formulate words and give an answer. Jaskier's heart speeds up.

"It's always like this," Geralt says at last. Its eyes are closed, and Jaskier can tell it's doing its best to relax. It shudders when Jaskier presses against what he assumes is a particularly painful spot. After a few seconds of massaging it, the Witcher's shoulders slope down and its abdomen unclenches. "Potions just make it harder to ignore." 

"Makes sense," Jaskier notes. "You are always more sensitive after your potions. But you're back to normal now, right?"

"Yes."

Jaskier nods and smiles, focusing back on the Witcher's legs. He can't stop himself from examining them. Perhaps a bit too much. It's just such a stark difference to how he knows his muscles are arranged. The Witcher's feet seem to be from another world. The heel is strangely hard and with the arch of the foot and thickness of the padding on its forefront and toes, it's clear as a midsummer day that the heel isn't meant for walking.

So focused on the anatomical differences and the prominent tendons which went from the middle of the Witcher's foot to its toes, Jaskier doesn't notice the tingling of his hands.

"Woooah," Jaskier gasps. He presses his thumb into the tendon again. The big toe flexes back. The Witcher grumbles and Jaskier completely drops the leg. "Sorry!" he yells over the Witcher's low hiss. "That was rude. Ah, my apologies." Jaskier ducks his head and moves onto the other leg.

"Besides your legs, are there more things that make you different? From other Witchers?" Jaskier asks. Then, feeling like he needs to justify this, he asks: "Because, really, it doesn't seem like a pair of funky bottom parts would be enough to make them think you're a 'dangerous abomination', as you put it."

"It's the mutations," says the Witcher, as though that explains everything. Jaskier nibbles at his bottom lip. Decides to take advantage of the Witcher's apparent loose-lippedness.

"Aren't you all mutated, though? Isn't that the Witchers' thing?"

"Yes. And no. Some of us—hmm." The Witcher quietens and ponders. Jaskier can practically hear the cogs turn in its head. "We aren't mutated all at once. There are stages—trials, we call them. Trial of the Grasses brings forth the strongest differences."

"Is that responsible for your legs?" Jaskier asks.

"No. I was...resistant to the Grasses. Few survive them, usually. If any do. The sorcerers wanted to see how much more I could take," the Witcher sighs. "They gave me this hair, this skin, the legs. Quicker, stronger, more resistant. Half the potions I use would kill my brethren."

"Melitele's tits, Geralt. That's—they did experiments on you? Were they painful ones?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," Jaskier says, slowing his massage. He doesn't know anything about Witchers, really. No one does. They're just faster and stronger, and they're greedier and thirstier for blood. Though the last two are easily disputed by Geralt's existence. Jaskier never really thought about it. He always assumed that there were as many Witchers as there were children taken to become Witchers. But _'few survive'_ , Geralt says. "That must've been horrible."

The Witcher hums.

Yeah, Jaskier doesn't particularly want to talk about that, either. He scoops up more of the cream and goes back to massaging Geralt's legs.

Something strikes him as he's looking at his hands. The little part of his brain that actually has common sense screams at him.

"Oh, shit," he says. He hisses, sucks in a breath and then tries to move his fingers. _Tries._ "Bollocks. I'm so stupid. Melitele's tits, what have I done?"

"What's going on?" the Witcher rises to a sitting position. Jaskier grimaces, bites his lips and then sneers at the ceiling.

"This is a numbing cream supposedly strong enough to break through the enhanced constitution of Witchers, and I'm touching it with my bare hands!" Jaskier wails. He lifts his hands right in front of Geralt's face, shows their meager range of movement. "Are they even real? Have they fallen off and I'm just hallucinating them? Oh, Geralt, this is a _travesty!_ I can't play my darling lute like this."

"Hmmmm," the Witcher rumbles thoughtfully. It grabs his wrists, and for a second, Jaskier expects a massage. The Witcher places Jaskier's hands on his mouth. The cream is somewhat sticky and pretty warm. 

Jaskier's eyes shoot open wide and he screams at the back of his throat. The Witcher is stronger than him and stops him from waving his hands. Everytime Jaskier pulls further back to yell in indignation at this grievous offense, the Witcher simply pushes his hands back at his face. 

It's like wrestling, except Jaskier never had a chance.

"You absolute ass!" Jaskier gets out before the Witcher swipes Jaskier's hand over his lips. Jaskier kicks at him. "Stop! Stop! This will not save you from my singing! You will not be spared. I shall have my revenge. I will—!"

Jaskier's ass falls off of the edge of the bed. One of the Witcher's hands snaps lightning-fast to his waist, keeping him parallel to the floor but not on it yet. Jaskier slaps his free hand to the Witcher's face and wipes it all over. 

"Aha!" Jaskier woops in victory. The Witcher drops him.

* * *

That night, they share a bed. Jaskier wipes off the excess numbing cream onto the Witcher's stomach. The inn's blanket is not yet dry, so Geralt fishes out their traveling furs. It wouldn't be the first time they sleep on the same bed, or pallet or hay, but it never felt quite like _sharing_. After their little talk, however, and with Geralt feeling far too comfortable with himself (" _Witcher, I beg of you, keep the braies on, for fuck's sake—_ "), it seems...strangely intimate.

As revenge for dropping him onto the floor and making his lips so numb Jaskier bit himself into bleeding by accident, Jaskier flops onto Geralt and holds on for dear life when the Witcher half-heartedly tries to push him away. Eventually, the protest turns into what almost feels like invitation; a powerful, thick arm softly curled around Jaskier's neck and head, making for a nicer smelling pillow than the ones they have, and a misshapen ankle touching Jaskier's leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's custom-made boots have an arch on the inside (kind of like platform-heels) that follor the curve of his foot and pull his heal down, so the weight is unformly distributed. They also compress it into a more uniform width. This basically means the little bones that make up the feet are constantly under strain, pressing against each other, causing hundreds of miniature fractures that immediately heal _wrong_. His muscles are sore, knees shot to absolute hell, and basically his body constantly has to spend energy healing itself. He's not having a fun time! (what I kind of imagine his legs look like: https://imgur.com/a/OVlfDwI)
> 
> Fun fact!: Hemoglobin, the protein that transports oxygen in humans, is part of what makes our blood red! It's bound to red cells and contains iron. Haemocyanin, blue when oxygenated and found in spiders, squids, octopods and crustaceans, has the same function! Except that it floats freely in the blood, unbound, and has copper. Not sure if it makes sense, but I thought maybe it would be beneficial for the Witchers to have an oxygen-transport system that flows on its own, considering their slow heartbeat and low blood pressure. And if it ain't beneficial? Meh, just a mutation side-effect.
> 
> Note: Haemocyanin is colorless when deoxygenated, so realistically, spilled Witcher blood would eventually turn a bit transparent as the protein loses its color. But! I wanted it to be a bit more funky-looking. A creative license within a creative license.


	4. painful thing to try, grit your teeth little one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT!!  
> TRIGGER WARNING: Semi-graphic/explicit descriptions of burns/blisters, implied self-harm, explicit-self-harm, can be seen as gory and/or violent (there are no fights, however). Comes in the second part of the chapter. This is just like...pure Jaskier Whump. Be careful when reading, just in case.
> 
> Other notes:  
> \- I have updated the link to my idea of what Geralt's legs look like in this fic (https://imgur.com/a/OVlfDwI). It's a very basic sketch, but gets the idea across.  
> \- Jaskier is having... issues with Geralt's pronouns. So you may experience a bit of confusion, seein as 'he' and 'it' are used interchangeably here  
> \- Beta'ed in full by PersonyPepper (both here and on tumblr), beta'ed in part by mtolympia (here and on wattpad)/aka @hoeliver on tumblr (aka @terukihazelnut. he's currently doing writing commissions!!)  
> \- Chapter title NOT a The Amazing Devil lyric this time. It's from SCAR by Ashton Irwin.

Four years.

Four fucking years he's followed a goddamn Witcher around like a lost puppy. He could have done the sensible thing and launched himself off a cliff. Walk into a forest and never leave. He could have and should have skipped right into Brokilon. It's not even that far away from Oxenfurt! He could have stolen a boat and tie a bag of rocks to his foot and jumped into the sea. He could have done so many things.

He could have died before his eighteenth birthday. He could have died on it, or days after. But no. No, he didn't, because he was, is, and will be a moron and an idiot.

Jaskier wasted four years being the Witcher's unwanted sidekick.

Worst thing is, he's not going to leave. He likes the thing. The crease between its eyebrows, the deep bruises under its eyes, its skin as smooth as the flat side of a blade, and its taciturn 'hmms', of which Jaskier now has a detailed catalogue of.

Jaskier's not going to leave hi— _it_. He just can't make himself. Can't make his legs go the opposite way. Can't stop them from running after the Witcher and its chestnut mare.

Perhaps today is a gift, then.

Because Jaskier can't move.

His eyes are closed and burning. The bright light of the sun, falling in through the window, drowns his vision in a bright, bright red. Bright blood red. And yet, Jaskier is drowning in something dark and deep, freezing. He's surrounded by waves that are pulling and ripping at him. Perhaps he is one with the dark depths, and the waves are as much him as he is them.

His fingers twitch. Smooth mattress. Heavy blanket. Furs.

It'd be painful to drown, Jaskier is pretty sure. Worse in seawater, perhaps. Rough with salt, it would scrape and rake and rip apart his throat as it went down. Settle nice and snug in his lungs. How many breaths would it take to fill them to the brim? How many breaths until his stomach and lungs and throat and mouth are full of nothing but liquid? Two? Three? Would his throat burn, or is that something one feels only when the water leaves? Maybe it's nicer to drown than almost-drown. Oh, what is he saying? Of course it's nicer. After all, he'd be dead and gone should he drown. That's all that he needs. That he wants.

But his feet won't take him to the coast—not unless the Witcher leads them there. 

Would burning be worse? Dying on a stake. That's becoming rarer and rarer these days. That is good. A lot of innocents died on them, even though they wished to live. Jaskier doesn't quite get why, but okay. Would the angry mobs put him on a stake if he asks nicely? They are always eager to bring the kindling and torches. He'd be doing them a favor! Quenching their thirst for depraved slaughter. 

He doesn't know what burning feels like. He should find out. It should be nice. It hurts for longer than a cut, he's pretty sure. Is it slower than drowning? There's that smoke that might knock him out before he ever feels the flames at his feet. What would his feet look like, burning? Red and coarse? Black? Would they be rough like the bark of a weeping willow?

It doesn't matter now, really. They're numb. His legs, his feet. His whole body, too. He could be thrown into the ocean, or hanged, or burnt, and he wouldn't feel a thing. How sad. 

Isn't that part of the fun? Of the emancipation? The horror and the gore. That's what his death should be like. Bloody and painful, long and gruesome. No one would recognize him. They'd see his guts splayed on the walls, hanging off of torches and they'd scream to Melitele, but they wouldn't be able to tell that the hands still stuck in some silver shackles have written ballads and poems in the wake of the White Wolf's conquests. The Witcher would probably be the only one who could identify him.

Four wasted years. Living. And now he's too selfish to leave the Witcher, whom he annoys so much every day. Perhaps he should stop. Hasn't gotten him what he wants, yet. But Witchers live long. For centuries. What's four years to h—to it? Jaskier shouldn't lose hope. There's still a chance. But Jaskier doesn't have the time to wait the decades it would take the Witcher to get rid of him.

He needs a new plan A, and relegate to the Witcher to plan B.

But that's for later. When he has the head to think.

He just wants to sleep. But his vision is bright, bright red, and he's _drowning_ ; it's been hours, and he can't _sleep_.

That's good, too. The Witcher is packing up. They stayed their night at the inn, and it's time to leave and go forth.

Jaskier can't move. Can't move and can't sleep.

_That's good._

Jaskier doesn't have the energy or the will to leave the Witcher alone, can't control it when his legs follow it to the ends of the world and beyond. But now he can't move. Can't follow it. _Won't_ follow it. He'll just stay in bed. Forever. He'll ask the Witcher to leave him some coin to pay for the room as soon as his throat and mouth take form again, as soon as he can feel them, and he'll stay in bed for a few days.

Maybe this will be the time he makes it to a full three days without a drink? Maybe four, or five? How long will it take for him to die? Does it matter? He'll be gone eventually. He _will._

Another good thing that could come out of this.

The Witcher is packing, still. Its potion bottles clink and clank in their little satchel. The Witcher rarely actually uses them, all things considered—perhaps because he is a Witcher above all other Witchers, a barely-successful experiment. Jaskier still massages its legs. He has the recipe on him and makes the mixture with the Witcher's watchful eye, ensuring he doesn't screw it up. Only happened once so far. 

The Witcher will accept any treatment, Jaskier has realized. It will let Jaskier cuddle it at night. It will let patrons at inns spit in its drink. It will let Jaskier massage its legs and follow it into baths. It will let humans throw stones at it and drive it out of towns. It will let itself be ordered around, most of the time. 

It's saddening; _maddening_. 

_Especially_ when it rips Jaskier away from the fights he starts, or chastises him for performing insulting songs about ungrateful folk and lords.

The saddlebags are packed. 

Jaskier's lute is still tucked away under the tavern bed, bags of his clothes in one corner or the other, a satchel full of scented oils and creams on the nightstand. 

Geralt comes to stand by Jaskier. The thick leather pants hide the abnormalities of his legs. Boots painful, rigidly keeping its feet in place.

"We're going," says the Witcher. Jaskier hums hoarsely. It's so difficult to move. Is Jaskier breathing? He must be. Oh, yeah, he is—upon further notice, his lungs are filling up every so often. Jaskier hums again, groans.

"Shiuus—joost—just leave m' s'me coin," he breathes out. Sun's directly on his face. He's cold. "Cash up wee you layer…" For all his classes on proper enunciation, the laws and rules of communication, and endless hours pouring over the class thesaurus to memorise it, Jaskier sure as hell shouldn't be trusted with words. He's a troubadour. Hah! What a joke. He can barely even talk. Just a failed bard.

"Will you finish your dramatics and get ready?" the Witcher grumbles. Jaskier hums something he hopes comes across as _'no, please leave me to my inevitable demise'_ but he's not the Witcher, so it probably just sounds like a bratty dismissal, which is just as well. 

The insides of his eyelids are full of dry sand.

The Witcher doesn't even grunt or hum or growl as it leaves the bedside. Its form blocks the streams of sunlight as it moves around. 

The door opens. The door closes. 

Jaskier falls deeper into the waters, blanket crushing him into the mattress. The sun's right in Jaskier's face. He's cold.

The door opens. The door closes. 

What is the Witcher doing? It usually packs and goes in one go. It's been on the roads for years—for entire human lifetimes, so of course it knows how to pack in _juuust_ the right way to make leaving easy and fast.

There's a twang of lute strings. The sunlight disappears for seconds as the Witcher stands. There's the clink-and-clank of little glass vials, this time Jaskier's oils and creams being moved to a larger bag. Jaskier tries to open his eyes. It hurts. He can't feel them. They tremble with effort and he can't do it.

The door opens. The door closes. 

Jaskier lays on the bed in his long-sleeved knee-length chemise and ankle-length braies. The lace on the collar bites into his neck. 

The door opens.

Jaskier is plunged into ice-cold water. The blanket is off. A gentle breeze hits Jaskier in the face. Did the Witcher launch the blanket and furs onto the other side of the room? Is he insane?

His body is pliant and loose in the Witcher's grip. He can feel its intense eyes drill holes through him. There's a hand on his bicep, shoulder, neck. Then, his vision darkens. Something settles on him—a different blanket? No. Smells like hay and blood and horseshit, with the slightest tinge of onion. Geralt's thick, cotton cloak. The Witcher wraps it around him. Lets him go. Jaskier crashes back into the mattress.

" _Abwuh?_ " he grunts out. There is no answer. Just something warm on his feet, and then his worn traveling boots are put on him. 

He's picked up like a sack of potatoes. A new scent fills his nose. Death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. Though it's mostly shitty ale from the local bar, the eternal musk of onion that refuses to leave Geralt no matter how many baths he takes, and little bit of chamomile, from that massage two nights back.

Jaskier's head falls forward. His forehead rests on the crook between Geralt's shoulder and neck. The muscles are hard, twitching.

The door slams shut.

The Witcher walks down the stairs, out of the inn and to the stables. Fresh air, with just a bit of hay and horse. It's nice. Jaskier wiggles his toes in his boots. _Oh, he can move._ He isn't up for walking, still. Or talking—only things that come out are half-stuttered nonsense words if he's lucky enough to make a noise beyond a grunt or a groan.

"Yeah, yeah," he feels the Witcher say—tremors heavy against his face and side, rattling his bones and settling his mind. Jaskier sighs into the Witcher's neck.

After some… truly impressive maneuvers, the Witcher finagles him onto the horse's back. Roach huffs, but the Witcher doesn't seem concerned much as it hauls itself into the saddle. Jaskier can't imagine this is comfortable for either the horse or Witcher, and he knows he's being, well, difficult right now. Why the Witcher doesn't just leave him, he doesn't know. It'd be much less trouble! And hell, it would be exactly what Jaskier wants. Though perhaps it knows that. Perhaps it's just being cruel.

Doubtful. Geralt's a kind soul, at heart.

"Keep steady," Geralt rumbles. Jaskier felt that, too. Why'd the Witcher wear armour when something as faint as that can be felt through it? Seems useless. Any claw could pierce it, couldn't it?

Jaskier sticks one of his hands under Geralt's belt, the one that cinched his waist, the other snaking its way behind him, to hold onto the saddle. Roach moves. It presses Jaskier further against Geralt. He swears he can hear the Witcher's heartbeat and feel the pulse of its veins against his face. Slow. Steady.

Jaskier begins counting it. Falls asleep before he reaches thirty.

* * *

Jaskier doesn't know for the life of him how they got to Dorian, of all places. Did they travel by the coastal lands between the sea and Brokilon? Did they circle around Temeria, passing through Lyria, Mahakam, Aedirn and Radania in the process? It's been a while, Jaskier knows, because the seasons have changed and the north has been having gentle snows every few days—only to melt that very same day. 

Jaskier's lost perhaps two months of his life, and he doesn't know what to feel about that. He's a little happy. He's not sure that's right.

But they're practically on Dorian's doorsteps, now. And Dorian has a monster problem of the 'Very Dangerous' variety, considering Geralt has decided to camp early in the afternoon and scout around for potion ingredients. So close to Brokilon, it wasn't unusual to find magical plants in Temeria's outskirts. Geralt's been gone for perhaps half an hour, citing he wasn't planning to return until dusk began to fall. Jaskier, well…

"Oh, fuck this!" he rips out a handful of notes from his notebook and feeds them to the fire. The papers didn't tear cleanly. He tugs at the little bits again and again and again, a little mount of paper scraps building by his feet.

His frustration grows by the minute.

Jaskier flings his notebook away into some bushes, letting out a growl that brings a taste of rust into his mouth. Nothing was working! No rhyme, no combination of syllables or words had a flow he liked. His fingers didn't move across his lute as smoothly as they should.

Did he play at all, in the months he hasn't been quite awake?

Certainly doesn't fucking feel like it. 

Jaskier falls back onto the log he had been sitting on. The sun is still high above the horizon. What is he to do? What's a bard to do when he can't do bardy things?

He looks into the flames.

They shouldn't even have a fire, really. But Jaskier couldn't stand the previous failures of his writings and took it out by breaking twigs off of trees. By then, it seemed stupid not to use them, so he lit the small pile. It wouldn't live long.

It was a pretty little thing. The only good thing he made today. Wouldn't last a second if the wind decided to blow, but it staves off the oncoming chill of the night. 

_It'd be painful to drown. Would burning be worse?_

Jaskier's never drowned before. Oxenfurt is close to the coast, practically at the brink. Lettenhove, too, sits atop a mountain simply a day's ride away from the sea, snug between Tretogor and Tridam. He went to it often. The waves hugged and tore at him. He's never drowned, simply breathed in the salty air and jumped into the freezing waters.

He'll get to it.

Jaskier unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve. He should burn his hands. But he can't. He needs them for the days when he _can_ play, even though they're being pieces of shit at the moment and should be punished. That, and the burns would be visible. Jaskier hates gloves, so he probably wouldn't deign to wear them even with a burn. Besides that, he can barely play in those. He can't have that. But people will ask. What would he say? He's not sure he has the brains to come up with a lie. Though, really, when _does_ he have brains at all? Or courage?

_Four years._

So many ways to die, and he's lasted four years with the Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia, Witcher extraordinaire. He's lasted almost five years since graduation. Top of his class, and yet he didn't think of throwing himself into the sea with heavy weights tied to his legs. He has a knife on him. Too cowardly to properly use it.

He rolls up the sleeve of his chemise. Lacy and patterned, greyish blue with pastel embellishments of Kerack's heraldry. When will the opportunity to drown present itself? Soon, he hopes. It'd be interesting to compare in his last moments. He doesn't mind if he never gets there, though, so long as he's gone.

The fire is roughly the size of, what, Jaskier's foot, maybe? Nothing like Geralt's preferred bonfires—he really goes all out, with stones as big as Jaskier's head arranged in a perfect circle around a fire so strong it could consume branches as thick as Jaskier's thigh within minutes. Compared to those fires, this is nothing. But it's warming Jaskier, and it'll do its new job fine.

People often call fire red. Jaskier doesn't get it, really. It's yellow! Like buttercups and dandelions. Like Witchery eyes. Licks of purple, green and blue, like paintstrokes to draw in the eyes. Little pops of cold amidst the burning hot. The very tips of the flame, the edges, those are red. Red-ish. Jaskier always saw them more as orange.

And _huh_. 

It doesn't even hurt that bad. Jaskier's eyes greedily drink up the sight—his skin reddens so quickly. 

It's—it's like the initial sting of a cut, right after the body catches up with what the eyes saw, that little alarm to signify there's a wound. Jaskier always makes sure his slices are nice, clean, and straight. After all, the more uniform they are, the more he can fit onto one spot. There's some less-than-elegant marks here and there on him. Bygones of lost control and hysteria.

The burning hasn't set in yet. Jaskier is fairly sure it's supposed to be _worse_ than this. Jaskier's skin has turned to blisters, little yellowed bumps surrounded by pink and red skin, glistening.

Is there _liquid_ in there?

Wide-eyed, Jaskier brings his forearm closer to his face. It looked very much like the blisters he got on his heels when he had first begun traveling with the Witcher. Except these were a tad bigger, seeming more full. Jaskier's breath caught in his throat. 

He took his little knife into his hand, hovered it over the fire. If anything, these past months showed that Geralt gives either far too much of a fuck, or is a cruel, cruel man. He can't let the wound get infected. Geralt would eventually notice Jaskier getting sick, and he'd try to help. Jaskier can't have that. Can't have the Witcher look at the wound and look at him with that—that pitiful _concern_. So he cleanses the tip of the blade in the flames.

Then sticks it into each and every blister, one by one, both disgusted and mesmerized by the thick fluid that leaks out. 

Jaskier puts the knife down, tip in the flames. He presses a finger onto one of the bigger blisters. The liquid oozes, transparent with a little yellowed tinge to it. Jaskier presses and presses and presses, until he can't press anymore. His hand trembles. Fingers twitch like dying worms.

His unburned arm slaps over his mouth. 

_Oh fuck!_ Oh fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck. Oh gods, that's. That fucking hurts, _actually_ hurts. No stinging, no little aches like his little cuts. Sweetest fucking Melitele. _Shit_. Jaskier's bites down onto his clothed arm. His throat closes up and his muffled groan-growl makes him taste blood again.

Fuck. _Fuck!_

What the shit, that—that hurts. Oh, _oh_ that hurts.

It's so awful.

It's so _good._

Jaskier feels panic swell in his chest. His thoughts blur. Blood thunders in his ears like thousands of screaming voices. He has to do something. Fuck. He can't keep it hidden. Not like that. He'll accidentally hit it or press against it, because that's _juuust_ his fucking luck, and Geralt will know by the look on his face that he's in pain. The Witcher would check him over. This, Jaskier is absolutely sure of. And this Jaskier fears.

Shit. Shit. There's so many fucking problems already and Jaskier hasn't done anything! First. First, the burn. The numbing cream should work. And maybe water? Water on burn. Makes sense. Yes. 

Jaskier sprints over to Roach, who minds the saddlebags. If that's what that can be called. The Witcher tied her to a thick tree by a patch of flowers Jaskier immediately wove into a crown and then presented as a gift to the horse. She ate them without snapping at him much. Progress. The Witcher, on the other hand, rolled its eyes and slapped Jaskier's shoulder.

The cream is—where is it? Shit. Jaskier knows it's there. Something in him says so, and he trusts it. But where? Should be somewhere. Where to begin? He's time to dusk. Sunset.

Fuck. Can't waste time _pondering_. Jaskier blinks his eyes, lets the tears fall. He drops to his knees and starts to rip apart the saddlebags. Roach bumps her nose into his head. He pushes her away with a mumbled something, nothing that he himself can recognize as having meaning. 

_Aha!_ Jaskier takes out his satchel. He found it fast, thank Marzanna, Melitele and all the other fucking gods. The glass bottles clink and clank. He doesn't care about them. Throws them off to the side, letting them skid across the grass. The box is heavy. His instincts were right! If there's one thing he does well, it's take care of his Witcher's massages and leg pains.

He rips off the lid, digs his fingers in, and rubs the mixture into his skin. It hurts and it stings and stings and aches and _burns_ but it'll be over soon, it'll be done quick. Just a few seconds, just a few minutes.

He gasps.

The water! He forgot the water! To clean it. Fuck. Fucking shit. But hey, it's not—not that bad, right? The cream will be absorbed in an hour or two. Surely, that won't make much of a difference. No, surely it won't. Worst case scenario, Jaskier goes to a healer tomorrow. His coin pouch is full. Geralt will be hunting whatever monster they have a problem with, and Jaskier will go to a healer and it'll be fine.

He just. Has to focus on hiding it, now.

Bandages. So his shifting sleeves won't irritate it more.

Roach is tense and snappy, huffing at him and stomping. Jaskier doesn't pay it any mind. He disembowels the other bags in search for the bandages they keep. Which, honestly, is _not many_. Jaskier doesn't use them for his cuts. Dabs the blood away with his handkerchiefs instead. But they aren't going to help here, not really.

Jaskier wraps his forearm haphazardly. The burn is, overall, not that big. He thinks. He doesn't know what counts as a big burn and what does not. The blisters aren't bigger than his fingertips, and take up a space equivalent to his fist. The redness and irritation and roughness stretches further, but it doesn't reach his wrist, and only mildly tugs at his elbow. It's fine.

It's fucking _fine_.

The numbing cream is slowly setting in. jaskier takes in the campsite. It's an absolute mess. But Geralt mentioned they are camping outside, because the monster is on the opposite side of the city, and they'll be safer on the other side of the fortified gates than within them. Jaskier doesn't get the logic, but okay. That—that works so fucking well, actually.

Jaskier tries to slow his heart's beat. He can barely hear Roach's little neighs. Her nose comes at him again, and this time, he nuzzles into it. Tries to find comfort. Just a little something to soothe him. He can't.

There's so much to do, still. Geralt can't see the campsite like this, with the contents of the saddlebags strewn about like a fucking tornado passed through.

Jaskier's pulse rises again. 

Fuck, would Geralt be able to smell the burnt flesh on Jaskier?

Jaskier needs—a bigger fire. A _bonfire_. A rabbit. Something. Anything.

The Witcher taught him some tips and tricks. It has a lot of wisdom to give. Jaskier can hunt a hare down. But he can barely fucking see. Tears blur his vision, and he can't hear over the blood rushing in his ears, and his hands are almost out of commission. It hurts to move the fingers on his burnt arm, and the others he can't fucking feel because of the numbing cream. 

That's why Jaskier borrows the Witcher's gloves during leg massages. So he doesn't lose feeling again. The Witcher took his gloves with him to pick ingredients.

Jaskier needs to calm down. Cool it. His skin itches. Jaskier works his other sleeve open, crawling towards the fire. Release. He needs to clear his head. A distraction. A trusty, dependable distraction.

His knife is still in the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because my beta-reader, wonderful PersonyPepper, had wondered about it: No, Jaskier is not going to try and kill himself with the knife. Here's what the 'implied self-harm' tag is for. Ya'll gon know _exactly_ what happens next update :D


	5. give me two damn minutes and i'll be fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma be real, I feel like this chapter is a bit boring/stiff, but there is some stuff going on so... I hope you have fun regardless!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Explicit self harm (knife, cuts), Jaskier burns his hand, animal death mention, animal gore mention.
> 
> Does this count as competent Jaskier? He does kill two hares...
> 
> [Title from: Two Minutes by The Amazing Devil]

It's not glowing red, like he imagined. The tip of the knife, the part which was consumed by golden flames, is charred _black_. Maybe it's soot, maybe it's something else.

Jaskier doesn't care.

He grabs the tang of the blade—the wooden handle has been lost, somewhere—and holds back a flinch. _Hot_. of course it'd be hot; it _is_ metal, after all.

Jaskier grips the knife as best as he can, grits his teeth and tightens his fingers, presses the edge to his wrist, and _pulls_.

Like with the burn, it takes a while before the pain hits him. Jaskier feels it in the middle of his fifth cut. Doesn't stop. The scorched blade was hot enough to burn and melt the skin he's pierced. The first mark has blackened and yellowed edges. Twin mountain ranges with a brown valley between them.

Little blood. Wonderful!

Jaskier eventually yanks the blade out of his skin. Bends over, presses his forehead into the damp earth. Drops the knife. Jaskier's fingers grip the grass, and his mouth gapes in a silent wail.

Fuck, these hurt more than normal cuts. 

And they're so _good_.

Something in Jaskier anchors itself. His breathing deepens and slows, and suddenly his lungs feel _light_ and _full_. 

Breath by breath, Jaskier pulls back into reality. He feels the tickle of grass against the tips of his ears. He feels the early winter frost turn to water under his finger tips. 

The world is soft.

For a little moment, the world is soft, patient, gentle, and kind, and his mind needs only to focus on the pulsing pain in his arm. 

He has time. There's, what, three—maybe even four—hours left until dusk? Geralt will probably return when it finally gets dark, rather than when the sun begins to hide behind the horizon. That's fine.

That's fine. That _is_ actually just fine.

Jaskier takes in a stabilising breath and takes out a handkerchief. The first cut, also the longest, was the most affected by the heat. Jaskier thinks he even saw some smoke from that one. The second looks cleaner, bleeds more, but still has ridges that are stiff and sharp, that sting sharply when Jaskier pokes them. The last few get progressively more _normal_ , more flat, but the irritated skin surrounding them is redder and broader than usual.

Jaskier lets the blade cool in the grass.

He skips over to the waterskins he tore out of the saddlebags earlier, dampens the handkerchief and cleans his cuts. His heart beats slow and he can breathe and he can _think,_ and the frustrations within him have been replaced by determination and a goal.

He dabs just a little bit of the numbing cream onto his arm.

Wounds need to breathe, so he lets them have some air, and curls up his sleeves. Jaskier gives Roach an apologetic pat on her snout. He shouldn't have been so curt with her, earlier. Probably shouldn't have let her witness this mess, either, but _eh_ , what does Roach care? 

Jaskier gets to sorting through the gear he ripped out. He puts the camping gear onto one pile, hides everything else into what he hopes are the proper satchels and bags. The saddlebags are still a little messed up. Jaskier doesn't know how to put them back together—it won't really be that much of a lie when he says so to Geralt.

As few lies as possible. That's another goal.

Jaskier straight up just wouldn't be able to lie. Both because it's the Witcher and because Jaskier's mind is too frayed for that. 

Once the saddlebags are mostly intact, Jaskier takes stock of the camping gear. It should be everything they need for the night. He even remembered to take out Roach's winter tarp, which, _huh_. Would you look at that? Maybe his head's in a better shape than he thought. But that's for later—Geralt will not be happy with him if he so much as lifts a finger to dress Roach. Brushing her down, checking her hooves, walking her around, those are all things that the Witcher sees as practically sacred rituals.

It hadn't said it, not in so many words, but comparing its reactions to Jaskier touching Roach in general, and then to Jaskier trying to take care of Roach at camp?

Yeah, Jaskier is not getting involved with that.

So, camping gear is ready. The fire has dimmed. Sun is still in the sky. 

He has time.

Jaskier pads over to his knife and rubs it on the back of his wrist, cleaning off the worst of the dirt and soot. It leaves patches of irritated skin. This time, it's from the cold.

 _Hmm_. He should experiment with the knife more. Maybe heat it up and press his skin against the flat sides? They'd be more controlled burns—easier to hide, too, perhaps?

_It'd be painful to drown. Would burning be worse?_

Possibly. The pain of the burn took a while to set in, but once it did, Jaskier could understand why people envisioned afterlives of the sinful and cruel to be rivers of fire. If Jaskier was to be burnt at the stake, his feet would be the first to burn. They're so much more sensitive. Would Jaskier be awake for his burning, or would the pain knock him out before the fires licked further up his legs?

Jaskier twirls the blade between his fingers, let the cold sting ground him.

It's fine if Geralt sees him set up camp. It's less fine if Geralt sees him mess around with the fire while Jaskier smells like burnt flesh.

Bonfire.

Meat.

Camp.

Jaskier nods to himself. Yeah. Good order—makes sense. Hides what needs to be hidden.

He gathers his wits and strength and sets out of their campsite. For good measure, and because he's feeling a bit more like himself, he points at the sun with a strict finger and tells it: "You best wait until I'm finished!"

He giggles to himself. Such a stupid thing to say. Fun, though. Good thing the Witcher isn't there. Jaskier is _not_ interested in hearing its disapproving hum. _Mostly_ —it sounds nice, even when directed at him. Jaskier bets it would be amused, too, Geralt trying but failing to keep its lips from smiling—— _anyway_.

The bonfire he makes is rather small. Jaskier flattened out the burning sticks and arranged the fresh ones in rings around those, ever decreasing in size the higher up the structure went. It's a formation the Witcher is _not_ particularly fond of, but Jaskier thinks it looks pretty. He blows through the cracks between the twigs. The fire inside grows and crackles.

Yellow blisters and burnt red flesh. He twitches his hand towards the spot. The numbing cream has started working full-force now.

Jaskier smiles to himself. His plan will work. It's all fine!

He takes his knife into his hand and goes off in a random direction. He keeps his steps light, like he knows the Witcher does. Tries to imitate its movements as best as he can. 

The wild hares are far more difficult to gather than some twigs and branches, but he gets two by flinging his blade into their necks. He wishes he knew how to throw the knife whilst _spinning_ it, still hitting the target with the sharp end. That would look so cool.

Although the Witcher would probably smack him if he tried that. It's a _traditionalist_ , ugh. ' _I'm not getting a fucking crossbow,_ it says, even as it's hunting shit that flies away. Sure, _sure_ , don't get a crossbow, but it literally is _your_ problem if you have to waste _two days_ hunting when you could have finished it only within a few _hours._

Jaskier swears the Witcher is as stupid as him sometimes. That's a depressing achievement.

Jaskier skins the rabbits with only minor nausea. He's got no clue how to cure the hide, not like the Witcher, so that will be _his_ problem. Jaskier uses it to hold onto the livers and hearts of the hares. They seem to be the Witcher's favorite parts when it decides to eat raw.

Because _apparently_ , it needs raw meat, but not _every day,_ and it does enjoy spiced and roasted dishes just as much. Soups are not its favorite, which is good, because Jaskier himself is not fond of on-the-road stews. Always weak and too watery.

Jaskier wraps the liver, heart and lungs—the Witcher's apparent second-favorite organs—in the skins and sets them on a stone close to the fire. He hopes they'll be kept warm enough for the Witcher to eat when it returns. Oh, shit, maybe they'll rot too much for that? _Bah,_ the Witcher can go hunt its own hares then. 

Jaskier flings the other organs into the fire for a little while, letting them burn to charred crisps before he fishes them out and buries them under a tree, a bit deeper into the forest. He skewers the hares on a spit and lets them roast over the flames. He has to flatten his bonfire into a messy pile of sticks to make sure both hares have roughly the same amount of fire, but that's fine. The Witcher will refine it when it gets back.

Which should be soon. The second Jaskier gets his hands on the camping gear, it is as though the sun remembered the day had to end, for the sky turned a deep orange, clouds bathed in purple and red. Jaskier rolls down his sleeves and buttons them up.

He's fighting with the front beams of their tent when the Witcher returns.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Jaskier jumps back with a gasp. It's calculated, for the most part, but to an outsider, it looks like he'd simply been surprised— _he hopes_. He didn't take acting classes for nothing. The Witcher grabs his shoulder and with one swift tug, pulls him away. But Jaskier flails his arms, ever-so-slightly reaching out towards the fire.

The Witcher's grip on his doublet slips. Jaskier falls flat on his ass, loses balance and feels the cold and damp ground against his back, and then—and then—

" _Fuck!_ " he screeches, not even having to _pretend_ he's in pain. He tries to bring his hand closer to him, tries to cradle it, but the Witcher grabs it and holds it tight. It _slaps_ his hand and wrist. Jaskier _screams_ and kicks at it. Belatedly, Jaskier realizes it is putting out the flames burning on his sleeve.

"Damn it, Jaskier," the Witcher growls. Jaskier doesn't put up a fight when it rips off his doublet, and makes sure he himself is the one to roll up his sleeve just enough to show the newly-burnt, ash-covered skin, without revealing the just-a-few-hours older burn under it. 

Gods, Jaskier was so smart when he made sure to burn himself high up on his forearm! Where would he be now, if he hadn't hidden it so well?

The Witcher takes a few seconds to examine the burn. It hasn't been in the flames for long, so Jaskier's fairly optimistic that it isn't all that _bad_. But the black soot and gray ash from the logs which Jaskier practically buried his hand in didn't look nice. Thankfully, it was mostly the pinky-side of his hand that burned, from the tip of the finger to just below the wrist. Multiple fingers are messed up and slightly swollen. Writing and playing with that hand will be hell, but perhaps not impossible. 

If he manages to get his shit together to actually play and write.

"Uh, this is going to be okay, right?" Jaskier ask. His hands and voice tremble. 

There's a single star in the darkening sky. It's getting cold.

The Witcher hums, and its a mix of known and unknown noises, and Jaskier can't figure out what it means right now. The Witcher grabs some bags laying around Jaskier—must have been the ingredients its been gathering—and walks over to the saddlebags. It _definitely_ notices they've been tinkered with, but gives no reaction.

Geralt returns to his side with a waterskin and the numbing cream. He cleans Jaskier's wound. He's gentler than Jaskier had been with his cuts, slowly pouring the water over Jaskier's hand. Jaskier hands him one of the cleaner handkerchiefs he keeps on him, and the Witcher softly lays it against the sensitive skin and brushes the remaining dirt away. He doesn't even press down, like Jaskier would have.

Then he hands Jaskier the numbing cream.

"Don't use too much," he grumbles. 

Jaskier shrugs and watches as Geralt fixes the front beams of the tent. He babbles at Geralt as usual, lightly massaging the numbing cream into the burn. The Witcher accepts his offering of not-so-fresh hare organs and eats them and a whole ass hare, but refuses even a quarter of the second. In fact, it refuses to let Jaskier off of their sitting log until _Jaskier_ eats the entirety of his own hare. His stomach hurts.

Before they lay to sleep, the Witcher puts down runes of _around their campsite and goes through his rituals with Roach. Jaskier gives her a little nuzzle when the Witcher properly repacks their saddlebags, placing a kiss between her nostrils, and gets a waterskin thrown at his face for his troubles._

__

Geralt doesn't like having massages on the open road, so they retire for the day quickly, with Jaskier practically ripping off Geralt's armour. Geralt bandages Jaskier's hand-burn and insults him the entire time, then looks ready to rip off Jaskier's head when he notices Jaskier has been smiling like a loon and not listening to a single word he said.

Finding a position to sleep in takes a longer while than it would usually. The Witcher wants Jaskier to sleep on his back, burnt hand on chest, to avoid irritating the wound. Jaskier, however, hates sleeping like that. The compromise is a win-win; the Witcher and Jaskier both sleep on their sides, Jaskier hugging Geralt from the back, Geralt's arm draped over Jaskier's to make sure he doesn't mess up his hand even more.

The only downside was the mouthful of silver hair, but Jaskier couldn't find it in himself to complain.

* * *

Jaskier wakes both far too early and in far too much pain.

He writhes against the Witcher's back and hisses into its neck. Geralt immediately startles out of sleep. He turns and takes one look at Jaskier before jumping to action. Jaskier pushes him into the bedrolls, and either because it just woke up or because it didn't really feel like getting up, the Witcher goes down quickly. 

"It's fine," he says, patting the Witcher's shoulders and leveraging himself up. "I need to take a leak anyways. You rarely get anywhere close to enough rest on the road. Lay back down and sleep or meditate, or something." 

The Witcher grunts unhappily in him, grumpy as ever, and it stays sitting. He rearranges himself and kneels, hands loose in his lap, eyes closed. Jaskier can tell he's taking the meditative route, and while not happy about it, he can't really complain about that.

Jaskier grabs one of the cloaks they've been warming in the night—the Witcher prefers using anything but blankets as blankets, especially if that something is a jacket or cloak, and after all these years of putting on pre-warmed-up clothing, Jaskier very much approves this—and pads over to the saddlebags. Roach seems to be deep in her slumber. Good. At least someone will get the rest they need.

It's no trouble to find the numbing cream, for the Witcher had packed it to be at the top of a smaller saddlebag. It's hardened with the cold of the night. Jaskier huffs hot breath at it, and slowly but surely it softens up enough to be useable. The burns are the most painful, but _fuck_ , the charred skin around some of the cuts has turned hard as stone. The burnt parts of his hand has paled considerably—it is now even lighter than the rest! He thinks Geralt had warned him about that yesterday, when they were going to sleep and Jaskier was too busy smiling at the Witcher, feeling warm with its concern. Something about dying skin. The bigger burn got even more blisters. 

Jaskier nonchalantly sneaks around the campsite, quickly locating his knife by the fire. He goes into the treeline, opening up the blisters to let the pus out. He does his business, and then puts the blade into his satchel of oils. With little more to do, Jaskier stretches his legs, walking in circles in the forest, picking up leafy bushes and flowers that he presents to Roach with a bow when she wakes. The Witcher chooses to get out the tent in that precise moment, and rolls his eyes.

Jaskier feels vindicated, however, when Roach happily devours the feast from his hand and lets him brush his fingers through her mane.

When the sun starts rising in earnest, Jaskier puts on a doublet and tightens the cloak over it, fastening it at the waist with one of the Witcher's belts. Or maybe it's one of Jaskier's? He's not sure anymore. Those kinds of things they tend to share. Unless Jaskier decorates his with something outrageous, like colorful paint. Floral engravings, however, _are_ tolerated.

Then they set off. Geralt straps Jaskier's lute onto Roach with a pointed look. Jaskier makes up for the loss by humming out the instrumentals when he has no more words to sing.

Geralt gets them into Dorian by bashing a guard's head in.

The place is surrounded by wooden pikes, at least three times Jaskier's width and maybe six times his height. Jaskier wonders how much time they've used to paint them red. Dorian is overall a small place, probably not even of much importance, but Jaskier knows that their proximity to Brokilon is enough to warrant heavy protection. Not to mention they do, in fact, have a little monster issue.

Well, a huge one, if Geralt started preparing before he even checked for a contract.

Jaskier himself can feel the distrust in the air. Enough so that he keeps quiet, lest he accidentally offends someone into stabbing Geralt with their pitchfork. Everyone stares at them as they mutter amongst themselves. Jaskier sees some of them tremble, parents locking children in their little huts, can see red-faced drunken rage just barely held back by fear. He wonders how Geralt deals with all of this. They don't often talk about Geralt's stronger senses or what they mean for him, or his better-but-not-quite-fixed reputation, but...Jaskier can't imagine being smelling hatred. Tasting it on his tongue. Hearing people's hearts quicken with horror. 

Can't imagine wanting to help people like Geralt does, only to be feared and spat at, and still help, even when he's cheated out of his coin.

Jaskier tucks himself into Roach's side, a hand on Geralt's leg. 

Eventually, they find their way to the alderman. Or, rather, the alderman finds his way to them. He barges out of the crowd and marches towards them with the confident gait of someone who thinks themself far too important. He's a portly and stout man, with a long braided beard and thinning hair underneath a fur-lined cap.

"What are you doing here, Witcher?" the alderman asks gruffly. What a question.

"You have a manticore problem," says the Witcher. How he manages to keep his voice so deep and cold and steady, Jaskier isn't sure. Jaskier's a trained performer and he can't envision himself just doing that, playing that emotionless mask.

"We'll deal with it ourselves!" yells a faceless voice from the crowd. Jaskier would peg the guy as the typical patriotic Lily that spends his evenings getting shitfaced. Perhaps a former soldier. Or a commander, because there is suddenly a cacophony of voices proclaiming their agreements.

"We don't need a Witcher!"

"There's nothing for you to do here!"

"Looking for trouble, are you?"

"We'll sooner die by the beast's claws than let you run away with our coin, you beast!"

"Hold on, hold on!" Jaskier cries out, detaching himself from Geralt's side and waving his arms about. "What was it about running and coin?"

At least a dozen people make their opinions known.

The alderman whistles. He looks Jaskier up and down, takes his bandaged hand. His eyes pass from Jaskier to Geralt and back, until finally he takes a few steps towards them. Jaskier does not like the glint he sees in those gray eyes.

"Half a moon ago, a Witcher had passed through on his way to Vizima," speaks the alderman, loud and clear. Jaskier straightens. _Public shaming_. Alright. He'll figure something to counter that. If it's about coin… "The miners had been raising coin, to get rid of an awful beast prowling through their city, who ripped apart their families, and bathed Vizima in bloodshed. Three thousand Temerian orens! And what did the Witcher do?"

The alderman turns to the crowd, arms raised. The crowd roars. Jaskier can only barely make out 'betrayed them', 'ran away', 'disappeared like a coward', and variants thereupon which the people spit at Geralt.

Jaskier takes a deep breath. Plasters on a smile.

"Yes, yes, we know about that!" he lies cheerily, a placating grin on his face. The alderman turns to him, gestures the crowd to be quiet. "That's why I came along, you see? My Witcher would never go anywhere without me." Honestly, after what Geralt had done earlier this year— _how many months has it been?_ —this didn't even feel like a lie. "Geralt, the White Wolf of Rivia himself, will rid your city of the monster, and not a single one of you will have to die attempting it on your own, that to you we swear."

"What are you proposing?" the alderman asks. 

"As the Witcher's faithful barker, companion and mediator, I shall stay under your watchful eye for the duration of the contact. I ensure the Witcher gets paid, but that you get the services which you have brought coin for!" Jaskier brings forth all of the posh grace that his life in Lettenhove has given him. "Should you feel that our word is not enough to believe on, then the Witcher shall leave an important possession of his with me, so that you may know peace of mind while waiting. I should warn you, however, that it is usually a sword I'm given."

The town murmurs around them. Jaskier can't hear Geralt neither hum nor growl nor sigh, so he assumes the Witcher knows this is for the best. The alderman examines Jaskier. 

"Manticores are vicious creatures, my friends," Jaskier continues. He knows fuckall about mand-mantik-manticores— _genuinely what is that and how is it spelled_ —but he knows the potions he saw Geralt pack and brew were the heavy duty kinds. That thing is difficult even for an experienced super-Witcher. "Dangerous beasts who have slayed more knights and noble warriors than there are people in Dorian. Verily, so I say, spare yourselves more dead husbands, fathers and brothers. Let the professional take care of your beast. Be reasonable. Do you not want your families and little ones to be happy, whole and safe?"

"So, what version of the rumours have you heard?" Jaskier asks the alderman, leaning back into his chair, silver sword draped across his lap. He places another coin onto the growing pile of Geralt's pay. The negotiations had gone smoothly enough once the general populace believed Jaskier's theatrics. The Witcher had only spoken when it came to describing the monster—and what a description it was! If only he'd was as good at adjectives when Jaskier begs for song material...

The alderman startles out of the half-nap he's been taking. A whole day and night have passed, and Geralt had not returned yet. Jaskier bets its because he didn't use a crossbow. _Stubborn traditionalist_.

"Pardon?"

"What rumours have you heard, about the cowardly Witcher?" Jaskier repeated. _Clink_. One thousand, three hundred and fifty-two orens. More yet to count. "The further from the source, the further from the truth a tale becomes. You live right by Vizima—surely, you know what truly plagues them?"

The alderman frowns and nods.

"All of Vizima had been plagued by a mysterious monster for many years," he starts, takes a bite of an apple and like the uncultured swine he is, speaks with his mouth full, spittle sliding down his chin. "It is said it comes from the Old Castle, where it prowls every night. But on full moons, it leaves its grounds, and searches for a tasty meal among the peasants. Hundreds have fallen to it, it is said."

"Oh no," says Jaskier, not even having to feign horror, albeit much of it directed at the alderman's manners. "Does anyone know what it is?

The alderman shakes his head. "Many have thought long and hard about it. They've had so many years to figure it out, and yet…" the alderman sighed deeply, sagging into his chair. "They had first thought it was a werewolf. The royal council had sent bowmen with silver-tipped arrows and wolfsbane pollen. Their bodies...not much had been left of them."

"Oh no," says Jaskier again. "What then?"

"Some have said the King offended a Baba Yaga, when she had come to his doorstep to ask for help," the alderman laughs at that, clearly finding it ridiculous. "Said she's turned his servants to rabid wolves and taken residence in the old palace."

"They'd all be dead if the King truly was the target of a Baba's rage," Jaskier chuckled, going along with the alderman. Geralt has some strong opinions about Baba Yagas—or rather, the myths about them. Because in truth, no such thing exists. More often, humans just happen upon a cast-away Witch or a fae, and sometimes it doesn't turn out well.

"Dead, or turned to chickens to lay the Baba eggs for breakfast!" the alderman grins. He tosses a grape at Jaskier, who catches it with his good hand and sighs delightedly as he eats. "And how many more stupid theories there had been! That it was a young dragon who came to steal the royal treasures, and liked the castle so much it stayed there. Ladies from the brewery claimed one of the maidservants had dabbled in dark magics and turned herself into a hungry vampire, burning in the sunlight. In a similar vein, a traveling couple from a Vizimian inn has claimed the King's sister to have fallen victim to a curse! That she'd turned unsightly and ugly, and the King locked her away so he must'n look at her a second longer, and that the betrayal had swayed her to madness!"

"Oh no!" says Jaskier, genuinely this time.

"But no, not any of these are true. Listen now, boy. Recently, word came that a miner's son has survived the beast. Said it was dark as the night and that its screams were that of a tortured infant, with a mane of raggedy hair and claws as long as his head."

"Does anyone know what it is now, then?" Jaskier leans forward in his seat, toppling over the little tower he's been making out of Geralt's pay. Fortunately, it doesn't slide off of the desk.

"'When a wolf crosses a the grave of a pregnant maiden, untimely in her death. Her babe starts to grow yet again, right in her belly. When it's big enough that babe rips out. Only it is no longer a babe, but a _monster_ '," the alderman intones. It is clear to Jaskier he has been reciting a tale, perhaps a poem, and that he must have heard it recently. The alderman bends over his plate of delectable fruit, two chairs away from Jaskier. He grabs another grape and throws it. Jaskier doesn't even have it in him to catch it, and it hits his chest. 

"A _vukodlak_ ," the alderman says with an unkind grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Yes, we are doing the striga story. And yes, it will be a liiiiiittle different.


	6. Betrayer Moon I: we could work it all out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter so far! We're officially treading on and mangling Canon territory :D
> 
> Trigger Warning: Descritpions of corpses, Jaskier gets jealous of said corpses, jaskier fantasizing abt choking on his teeth.
> 
> The striga plotline/Betrayer Moon Episode should hopefully only be two chapters.
> 
> [Title from: DRIVE by Ashton Irwin]

It takes Geralt two days to kill the manticore and bring its ungodly face into Dorian, and Jaskier heroically holds off the _'you could have just used a crossbow'_ comment until they're alone in their room, where Jaskier had slept while under the watchful eye of the alderman. 

Thankfully, the Witcher was barely injured when it returned. Jaskier had its whole pay ready, and stole grapes and onions for it to munch on while in the bath. Jaskier will never understand its enjoyment of onion. Before bed, Jaskier massages the Witcher in its entirety—back, front, bottocks, legs and all. 

They leave Dorian at the break of dawn. Jaskier's hand burn was paler and yellower as the skin separated further from the muscle underneath, and it was so tender that putting on the numbing cream was as excruciating as the burning itself. The cuts were pink and bled easily when rubbed, and the harsher burn on his arm seemed to almost fold in on itself at the sides, browning edges curling in as the skin turned almost transparent. 

At the very least he's had a good night's sleep on an actual bed. Once the numbing cream set in, Jaskier could walk with a skip in his step. 

"Ah, we should head this way," says Jaskier at a crossroads, pointing in Vizima's direction. Geralt peers down at him, a questioning hum, not stopping for a second, but actually diverting his course towards the castle. Jaskier beams and strokes Geralt's leg. He'd probably nuzzle it, as he often does with Roach to show his gratitude or general affection, but that's difficult while they're still moving. 

"There's a vukodlak there, if the recentmost sources are to be believed," he starts, then recounts everything the alderman had told him. 

"Does it eat the victims whole or in parts?" Geralt asks at the end. Jaskier raises a single brow at him. 

"Well, the way the alderman described the bodies, they were ripped apart enough that you couldn't tell the head from the bottock," Jaskier says. He scratches at his neck, stretching his other hand's burnt fingers. "I didn't really know monsters could be picky enough to choose whether they'll eat the right foot or the left, Geralt." 

"Did it display its ripped off skin on trees?" 

At that, Jaskier is hit by a bout of nausea, so he brings out the waterskin tucked away under his cloak, pours water into his mouth, and then spits it out on the side of the road. 

"Gods, Geralt, I literally just ate!" Jaskier hisses, and takes a sip of the water. He passes it to Geralt, who downs what Jaskier thinks must be half the waterskin. "If there were any other concerning phenomena, like tree-hanging skins, cattle pox or chickens laying rotten eggs, I think the alderman would've mentioned it." 

The Witcher hums in consideration. He passes the waterskin back. Jaskier takes one last sip before hiding it under his cloak again. 

"Not a vukodlak, then," Geralt says with a finality. 

" _Oh?_ " prompts Jaskier. And, because Geralt must be in good mood after the frankly fantastic pay that Jaskier had secured, the Witcher elaborates. 

"How would a wolf get into a royal crypt?" Geralt muses. The question does make sense, and Jaskier wonders how he hadn't thought of that—after all, practically everyone assumes it's Princess Adda's babe that was turned to a monster, and it's not like royals get buried. "Furthermore, its behaviour is too contained for a vukodlak. They rapidly expand their territories. It would have devoured Dorian by now. Secondly, vukodlaks can free themselves of their curse by taking off their skin and hanging it on trees. If it's eaten or stolen by sunrise, they are cured, and can either live or die in peace. The cattle would also have dropped dead within the first few weeks of the vukodlak's birth, for the fleas from their pelt are parasitic maggots that eat the cows from the inside out." 

"How come the only times you're capable of describing a monster and your little hunts, I either have no way of writing that down, or am about to empty my stomach?" Jaskier slams his hand into Geralt's thigh in admonition and holds back a cringe. He's probably hurt himself more than Geralt, but he's not giving the Witcher the satisfaction of seeing that. Although it probably already knows, going by its little smirk. 

"If not a vukodlak, then what is it?" Jaskier asks. The Witcher shrugs. Completely unconcerned in the face of an unknown foe. "Oh, don't give me that. You must have some idea about it. Three words or less." 

The Witcher gives a long-suffering sigh. _'Right back at you,'_ thinks Jaskier. 

"Too many options," says Geralt. 

The Witcher eventually takes them off the road, instead going down a small beaten path through the woods. It's narrow enough that Jaskier can't walk by Roach's sid., He's absolutely not walking _behind_ Roach—he'd like to keep his teeth, thank you very much—and it's not like he knows why they're off the road, so he sure as hell isn't going to lead this circus. 

"Hey now, don't run me into a tree," he complains, uninjured hand pulling at Geralt's ankle. The Witcher rolls his eyes, and Jaskier opens his mouth to complain about that, too, except the Witcher grabs him by the doublet and cloak, and lifts Jaskier as though he's a sack of potatoes, and sits the bard on the front of the saddle. Geralt himself had scooted back to make place for the wriggling troubadour. "Fuck, shit, sorry Roach, oh, bollocks—" Jaskier mutters as he situates himself on the seat. 

After an experimental butt wiggle, he nods to himself and relaxes, leaning his back on Geralt. Jaskier sighs, content. 

"Oh, if I only had my lute…" he whispers. Geralt smacks his leg. 

"I'll cut off your fingers personally." 

"How rude!" 

Jaskier sings a very terse, snippy song about a White Wolf who wouldn't listen to the crow's musical warnings. Geralt gets fed up with him barely two verses in, and smacks a hand over his mouth. Jaskier tries to get out of it, but Geralt reminds him that such sharp moves hurt Roach, so instead Jaskier presses as hard against Geralt as he can, lays his head on Geralt's shoulder, and fucks off to dreamland. 

And so what if he wakes with a crick in his neck? That's just valid complaints to make Geralt listen to. 

"No, but really, we should invest in pillow pauldrons for you. They would be perfect for a nap, but also would prevent you from getting your skull cracked to pieces when you fall..." 

* * *

The forest path deposits them not far from the collapsed ruins of a royal stronghold. 

On their way to the mines underneath the New Castle of Vizima, they pass a very crudely drawn sheepskin sign, which bears the inscription of _'Temeria: Realm of monsters and cowardly kings'_. Jaskier has to admit, he's impressed that the local peasantry is literate enough for that. 

Geralt ties Roach to a birch just off to the side in the tree line. He gives Jaskier a pointed look, with an equally pointy finger directing him to stay back. Jaskier, of course, has no regard for that. He can see the lines of Geralt's shoulders tighten and rise under his black cloak when Jaskier treads after him, but the Witcher simply continues onwards. 

The mines are rather orderly—homely, even. With tall rectangular pillars, smooth unlike the rough walls, and grand torches that chased away shadows into tiny nooks and corners. Everything was bathed in warm, golden light, that brought life even to Geralt's pale gray skin, and turned the lavender of his veins into pink. Jaskier kept close to his side, fist clutching his cloak. On one hand, it helps Jaskier keep his steps as quiet as Geralt. On the other, the proximity lets Jaskier see the reflections of flames in Geralt's eyes. 

The deeper in they go, the louder the voices of angry men become. Geralt leads them to stand unnoticed, leaning against a pillar, well-lit from the torches at both their sides. Jaskier puts his elbow on the Witcher's shoulder and cradles his cheek in his hand, juts out his hip and crosses his ankles. Not the most _comfortable_ pose, but once the miners take notice… 

They had arrived just in time for Jaskier to witness one of the dwarven miners take a stand, stomping into the middle of the gathered ring of miners. There was, what, thirty, maybe fourty of the men? 

"A half-measure ain't gonna do!" the dwarf says. "Not for us, nay, the King cares not for us. We must move on, replenish our coin. Plenty of work south of Sodden!" 

The men lift their tools with enthusiastic roars. Jaskier feels almost warm at their show of solidarity and determination. But there was pit slowly gathering in his stomach. The miners were planning a strike, right under the King's nose, in the mines of the castle? Are they _trying_ to get caught? 

"My son," a voice breaks through the yells, sharp and filled with purpose. Everyone immediately quietens. Miners part to reveal the one who has just spoken, and the man slowly stalks to the middle of the circle, dirty and with ears just a tad too big for his face. "My son, rest his soul," the man continues. "He told me in Nilfgaard the king diddled whores while his subjects starved. Then came _The Usurper_ , Eswyllt var Emreis, their true Empress. But she had not the power to fight back against the King alone. So, she rallied the people. She took her rightful place on the throne, and the people took back what was theirs!" 

The miners burst into roars again. 

"I say we follow their lead!" yells the man. The miners raise their tools, one, twice, thrice, pumping them, yelling victoriously each time they reach their zenith. Jaskier looks to Geralt, and sees the same sense of incredulity in Geralt's eyes when their gazes meet. 

Tentatively, Jaskier speaks up; "And who would you put on the throne?" 

The miners all turn to look at him and Geralt. Jaskier smiles, cocking his head to the side. The man that had just spoken, whom Jaskier assumes to be the father of the dead boy the alderman spoke of, frowns and bares his teeth at Geralt. 

"Another fucking Witcher!" he spits, and the miners all grip their tools tight, ready for a fight. "Your kind already swindled us once." 

Jaskier expects Geralt to speak up. He doesn't. After a beat, Jaskier pushes himself off of the wall and projects his most confident self, a grin taking over his face. For a second, it feels like he's back in his mother's study in Lettenhove. Her face stern as she talks him through the manners of courts and nobles. _'Let nothing surprise you,'_ she had told him. ' _You must control every fiber of yourself and show no weakness. You cannot afford to lose any negotiation. For the good of Lettenhove.'_

"It is why we have arrived. An apology, from the Guild of Wolves, to the guild of miners," Jaskier bows with a flourish, waving his arms so as to reveal the very expensive blue silk of his doublet, and the heavy silver rings on his bony fingers. He shows off his _importance_. "Listen, good men, for we are here to make up for your losses. Before you stands Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!" 

Jaskier steps to the side. He presents Geralt with a poised hand, keeping his back straight and motions elegant. Geralt simply nods politely at the miners. Why won't he just speak? Is he being uncooperative on purpose? Or is this revenge for what Jaskier did in Dorian? Jaskier is aware he should have let Geralt come with some input, speaking to the alderman, but _come on._

"Only two days ago has Geralt defeated the manticore of Dorian! We take no pay until the job is done, and to show our regrets for what our guildmate has done to thee, we shall accept but half the price." 

Jaskier pulls his limbs back to himself. He stands prim and proper, back turned to Geralt. Who better not try and yell at Jaskier later. Jaskier genuinely doesn't know how Witcher pricing of contracts works, but is well aware that many of the prices most offer are less than the hunt's true worth. This might be a truly horrible failing of negotiations on his part. Oh, well. It's Geralt's problem. He can speak up about it if he's unhappy. 

The miners, at least, seem interested. 

Distrustful, but interested. 

The father of the murdered boy eyes Geralt skeptically. 

"And if you can’t kill it?" he asks. 

"Then I die," answers Geralt, matter-of-factly. It strikes a poisoned arrow through Jaskier's heart. _Fuck._ That—not that Jaskier forgot the Witcher could die at any moment, not exactly, but—fuck he didn't—he doesn't really _think_ about it. 

His scars itch. His blade is in his sleeve, fastened under the bandages. 

The sound of stomping hooves and feet echoes through the halls. Jaskier swivels around. Knights dressed in shining armour march into the tunnels. The light of the torches makes their mail and plate look like solid flames. At the head of the group walks a man dressed in expensive black and navy silks befitting of a noble, but lacking the usual embellishments. A royal advisor, perhaps? 

The man comes to stand self-importantly between the knights and the miners. No one pays Jaskier or the Witcher any mind. 

"Please. Everyone remain calm," says the man. He sounds like a parent humoring his misbehaving problem child. "Lower your weapons and return to your homes. Do so quickly and without further theatrics, and you have my word that our king will not hear of this treason." 

Wrong this to say. 

"Foltest commits treason!" yells the father-miner. He stomps closer to the royal advisor. "He hides in his winter palace as we are eaten." 

The miners shout their agreement. 

The royal advisor purses his lips, mechanically raising his eyebrows. He sucks in a breath. The miner is unmoved when the courtier puts a hand on his shoulder. Even less so when the courtier looks into his eyes. 

"Mikal was a good boy," says the royal advisor. Jaskier assumes that Mikal is the name of the dead boy. Of the miner's son. _'Uh oh,'_ Jaskier's mind murmurs, _'this cannot end well'._ "Revenge will not ease your pain." 

"Ah," says Jaskier conversationally. He feels dozens pairs of eyes look at him. He doesn't need to see Geralt to know the Witcher is absolutely fuming. "Now, I must say, that isn't quite right. While revenge cannot bring back the dead, it can give closure to those who have been wronged." 

Mikal's father shoves the royal advisor's hand off of him. Jaskier walks closer. 

"The miners are wrong to wish death upon the King," he lies sweetly, arms gently open in a welcoming gesture to placate the courtier. "But they are right to be angry. The King has done nothing to save them. Lucky for the King, _we_ are here!" 

Geralt moves to Jaskier's side without prompting, shielding the miners from the knights. His broad stature cuts an imposing figure. The royal advisor takes a step back. Several soldiers brandish their weapons, but a simple gesture from the courtier halts them. Jaskier puts a hand on Geralt's shoulder and grins. 

"Geralt, White Wolf of Rivia, Witcher extraordinaire and Jaskier, his barker, bard, and friend!" 

The royal advisor narrows his eyes. 

"See these two to our borders, and make sure the miners find their way to their homes." 

* * *

"I'm sorry," Jaskier whispers as he leans back against Geralt's chest. 

The small royal platoon boxes them in from all sides, pairs of horses and riders from every angle. Roach is unhappy and stressed, and Jaskier pets her neck every now and then in support. Geralt, on the other hand, has been quietly seething with rage since Jaskier got them kicked out of Temeria. Jaskier has already accepted his fate. Geralt will ditch him, or maybe throw him in a ditch, and be free of the failure that is Julian Alfred Pankratz. 

He'd rather not have a breakdown in front of the guards, so he's decided to postpone that until he's alone. He'll find a nice pile of rocks, put them in a sack, tie it to his leg and jump into cold depths of the winter sea. 

Geralt hums at Jaskier. It wasn't an angry hum. Not outwardly, at least. It sounded closest to those tired, disapproving-but-not-angry hums Geralt would make at almost everything Jaskier did before correcting whatever it was Jaskier has done. There wasn't much that could be corrected here. Except, perhaps, Jaskier's existence. 

Roach takes naught but two steps before Jaskier notices the soldiers falling off the horses. 

"Uh, what?" he says, ever so intelligently. 

Geralt practically launches himself off of Roach. Jaskier makes to follow, but is stopped by one of the Witcher's hands on his leg. Roach turns around under Jaskier's gentle prodding. The Witcher brandishes its steel sword, eyes whipping from side to side. 

A dark figure fades into view, slowly walking down the snow-covered path. 

"Witcher, bard," greets the figure in a soft voice. "Please, lower your sword. I am not here to hurt you." 

"Says the Witch hiding in the woods," Geralt retorts. The figure comes closer. The person wears a long bespectacled cloak, which shimmered in the moonlight. Jaskier gives them points for style. 

"Sorceress," corrects the figure. 

"Witch," repeats Geralt. 

The figure sighs, shoulders dropping in exasperation. It lifts its hood, revealing earthy skin and curly, auburn hair. The woman looked friendly, her face round and freckled. 

"Triss Merigold," she says. "I serve King Foltest." 

"Okay, hold up a second," Jaskier interrupts, feeling just a bit tired. "What was the point of kicking us out if he's going to send his mage after us? I mean, wouldn't it be more beneficial for Foltest to make a show of hiring a Witcher to get rid of the beast? Would placate the miners, at least." 

"They don't care about placating, Jaskier," Geralt grunts at him, voice darker and hoarser than on average. Was Jaskier not sitting on Roach, he would have given Geralt a grounding touch. "Not an original plan, this one. Refuse a Witcher's help, so you're not vilified by your people. Send your errand girl to pay the Witcher, and get your monster killed anyway." 

Something clicks in Jaskier's mind. He snorts derisively. 

"Ah, of course," he mutters. How could he have forgotten? The miners, the people of Dorian, their reluctant acceptance is not the norm. How many times has Jaskier been refused admission to a tavern or an inn, simply becuase people had recognized him as a Witcher's side-along? How many times has Geralt been spit at, passing through a town? How many times have people taken hold of their pitchforks, torches and scythes, and threw rocks at the pair to drive them out of town? 

There are nobles and royals whose reputations and power would be undermined by a Witcher's presence at their court. Because, apparently, asking for a professional's help when your people are dying is a fucking _crime._

Jaskier hates people, sometimes. 

The sorceress moves yet closer to them. Jaskier stiffens on Roach's back, and her ears flick about, stomping her hoof. Geralt brushes his hand down her neck. 

"This is not the case. Not here, not today," Triss the Sorceress declares. "This is my plan. My coin. I have no wishes for you to kill the beast, but to save it." 

For just a moment, Jaskier and Geralt stay in a stunned, confused silence. 

"Oh! _Is_ it a werewolf, then?" asks Jaskier with a grin. Both the Witcher and the Witch turn to him, equally disbelieving and unenthusiastic. Oh, _they'll_ get along well. "What? That's the only curable monster besides _vukodlaks_ that I know of!" 

Geralt's answering groan is _so_ pained and _so_ exhausted. Jaskier keeps up the grin, but feels his chest immediately fall in on itself. He didn't even say anything that bad! He didn't, right? 

Or maybe it's the build up of it all? The manticore, Jaskier's involvement therein, Jaskier and the damn pestering and the monster of Vizima and Jaskier not letting Geralt take charge of his job, resulting in them getting kicked out of Temerian lands. Though, well, it's probably not that unusual for Geralt to happen. It's just. It's one thing for it to be because of Geralt himself—he' _s other,_ he's _different,_ and of that people are terrified—but for it to be Jaskier? That only means that Jaskier had fucked up by virtue of existence and being, by his actions and words, by his best attempt still being the worst. 

He's probably overthinking it. It was a tiny groan! Truly. Maybe it's not so bad. But. With Geralt, there aren't really many 'big tells'. To tell how he feels, one must really pay attention to the pitch and tone of his hums, the lengths of his grunts. A little bit of hope dies inside Jaskier. 

Geralt hops up on Roach, sliding in behind Jaskier. His lungs turn to bricks. _Heavy._ His knife is under his sleeve, bandaged into place. When they get where they need to be, Jaskier will slip off and disappear, and he will have a little break. 

A little time-out. A little bit of softness. 

He makes a fist of his healthy hand. The burnt, melted skin of his cuts pulls and stings and aches as it fights against the stretch. _A little bit of calm._

Geralt's hands take over the reins. Jaskier makes sure to sit as far forward in the saddle as he can, tracing patterns into Roach's neck and crushing his burnt hand into the saddle's pommel. He doesn't want to bother Geralt even more. Fuck, should Jaskier get off the horse? He should have gotten off of the horse. Too late now. _Bollocks._

It doesn't take a while to get to Triss' place; on the outside, a small cottage, emanating golden light through the paneled square windows; on the inside, a labyrinth of hallways, floral smells, and thick vines decorating the walls. Jaskier follows blankly after the Witcher and the Witch. He should be impressed by all this, really. By the warmth, the gentleness and softness, a picturesque piece of reality that he's pretty sure Triss had come up with herself. Jaskier should be asking about the twisting, wiggling rosebushes, about the breathing flytraps, and dancing leaves of what he's pretty sure is an alizarin-colored aloe vera. 

But Jaskier feels tired and his fingers itch for something to hold and pull against his skin. He's tired, and he's scared, because the Witcher puts up with so much fucking shit from him—has it finally decided Jaskier is enough? Geralt is...too heroic and kind to kill Jaskier. Even if he were to ask. Jaskier hasn't come to peace with that, yet, but he's getting there. So, instead, it would just leave Jaskier. In a tavern, perhaps, thinking Jaskier to be safer there. But, eh, why would it even deign Jaskier with such kind concern? No, the Witcher would kick Jaskier into a ditch and leave him there. It's what it _should_ do. It's what Jaskier deserves. 

"As you have already gathered, it is not a vukodlak that haunts Vizima," Triss says, somewhere in the world. Jaskier isn't quite sure, except that it must be from within the hut they're in. "What we know for sure, so far, is that this monster does come from the crypt where Adda, King Foltest's sister lays. Rumor has it she was having an affair with a young man in town when she died." 

"Was she pregnant when she died?" Geralt asks, bowing under a writhing vine that hung from the ceiling. Jaskier walks straight into it. He thinks he catches a thorn or two on his scalp. It's an empty sting. But it might not have even pierced the skin, which is a shame. 

"Likely. That's one of the suspected motivations." Triss leads them off to a very long hallway. Barren of the vines and wiggling flowerpots, it looks cold, despite the golden light of the torchfires. "Foltest never married, which makes Adda's babe the sole heir to the throne. The King had fled the castle, and still does nothing for the rising death toll. With the Usurper conquering Nilfgaard and burning their court mage at the stake, the Brotherhood is becoming...paranoid. Sent me here to take care of the creature." 

"Why haven't you done that yet?" Geralt asks. 

"My...personal predicaments prevent me from getting too close to the creature. It is also immune to the Chaos that lets itself be wielded by us mages. I think it had been born of a ritual." 

"A curse." 

"Perhaps, yes," Triss nods. The sorceress turns around, walking backwards with a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "A magic far more ancient and powerful than I can manage. Only someone who wields as raw a Chaos as Witchers can be its match, but...even that is debatable." The Witch turns around again. Her steps quicken, shoulders taut. "Two thousand Orens if you can tell me what exactly it is that we are dealing with." 

Which, considering the pay Jaskier wrangled out of the Dorian alderman for the manticore was two thousand, three-hundred Orens… Jaskier feels bile rise up his throat. Fuck. _Fuck._ He should have gone for a bigger price. He should have been a better 'mediator'—what the fuck was he even thinking, taking over the negotiations like that? _Twice,_ even?! Fuck. Geralt's going to leave him in a fucking ditch and Jaskier deserves it and he should _live_ and _suffer_ knowing he's fucked up his friend's life, but no, _no,_ Jaskier's too much of a selfish coward, so he'll jump off a cliff or walk into a monster den or maybe finally have what it takes to stab a knife through his throat⸻ 

But it doesn't matter, at the moment. 

They reach the end of the corridor. 

Jaskier finally notices the smell of rot, of stew left alone in its pot for weeks and months, and the tang of salty ocean air. Something disgustingly sweet carries itself up Jaskier's nose and makes his eyes water. The combination is pungent and overwhelming. Both Triss and Geralt appear uncaring of that fact, which perplexes Jaskier, because _fucking hell._ He follows the smell of rotten eggs and moldy meat, and he stands in front of a stone, rectangular basin. Full of salt, and looking like a tomb. 

A pale gray face sticks out from between the white crystals. 

It's a horrific sight. Black streaks stain its temples and cheeks, leading up to empty eye sockets. No eyelids, browbones crushed and cheekbones caving into the face. As though miniature bombs have exploded behind the eyes. Broken nasal bridge, tip of the nose hanging on by the stretch of its green-tinted skin. Pale, blue lips, corners already infested with dark green mold, tendrils reaching further out. Smelling like pure sugar, except magnified and inescapable and _burning._

Jaskier imagines the man's face as somewhat slimmer, somewhat pointier, with a bigger forehead and lesser wrinkles—a nose that had been not hooked, when alive, but straight and up-turned. He imagines how painful it would be, to become like that. To have his eyes burst like eggs hurled against a wall. 

It's what Jaskier wants to be. 

As peaceful as this mangled corpse. As gone, as deep in the void. 

Something vicious pounds in his chest. _Do jealous eyes really turn green?_

He looks to the other side. 

A similar view greets him. This time, of a maiden, closer to his age by what he can tell. Shrunken eyes, pallid green-gray skin, mold eating away at her sockets and smashed nose. Her jaw is loose and missing one side, skin completely peeled off to reveal sinuous tissue, frayed muscle and splintered bone. Bottom teeth missing—ah, no, _stuck_ in the palate, pieces of dried, shrunken meat still clinging to their roots. Upon further examination, a few had fallen into the corpse's throat. Jaskier swallows. What would it be like? Oh, what would it be like, to choke on his own body, his own self? What would it take for this to happen? 

He doesn't need his jaw dislocated—but maybe, _maybe,_ if he were to go to a bar and sing about the Witcher, the knightly White Wolf, and a drunkard would yell at him in a rage—what if Jaskier threw the first punch? What if he made the other person slam their fist into his head, his _face,_ teeth falling out and filling his throat. They would pierce his throat as he swallowed around them. They'd pierce his throat, and the blood would travel down to his lungs, and he'd drown with it. Such beautiful irony, isn't it? 

And despite the mold, sickly green and the rot-brown of the corpses' exposed flesh, they looked so clean. The perspiration gathering on their faces from the damp air looked pearlescent—skin shining like opals. Clean, polished, well taken care of. 

Wouldn't it be so wonderful, to be taken care of? Without having to do anything, without having to be anything, just being worthy? 

Jaskier follows Geralt, stands at his side. 

Time picks up speed. As though it has slowed and stopped before. 

The Witcher and the Bard stand in front of a third tomb, also filled with salt. A dark-gray face, tinted blue and free of mold, with purple-black streaks from its eyes. Not burst this time, just melted. Dark hair and beard disappearing under white crystals. 

Purple-black, rotten blood. A Witcher. 

"You didn’t want the people to know that it bested a Witcher," Geralt growls. When Jaskier looks to him, his eyes are open wide and his chest trembles when he breathes. He's shaken. Confused, angry, _betrayed_ , because while they had not known Triss long, she seemed kind and soft, not the type to play such cruel games. "You let them believe that he fled with their coin." 

Geralt steps closer. Triss doesn't say anything. He brushes away some of the salt where the Witcher's clavicle would have been. A round medallion. Geralt grips it, bares his teeth and rips it off. 

"Not even a Cat deserves such treachery," he hisses. 

Ah, a Cat Witcher, this one. Geralt had mentioned there are different schools. Didn't go into details about them, but seemed particularly distrustful of the Cats. Jaskier doesn't know too much about Witchers as a whole, not yet, but if he lives long enough, perhaps one day he will. 

Oh, what a depressing thought. He'd need to live at least anothe decade by the Witcher's side to learn such things. 

Jaskier would rather get struck by lightning. 

Geralt hides the medallion in a pocket of his cloak. He pats down the salted-over body of the Cat Witcher. At the stomach, his hand sinks down and deep. Geralt brushes away the salt to uncover purplish crystals, exposed gray bone, and tattered clothing. An empty stomach cavity. Into which Geralt _digs_ his hand, his _arm_ , up to the elbow, deep into the chest, _looking_ for something. 

Jaskier _wants_ to feel horrified, really. It feels like the right response. Instead, he's just tired, and he's vaguely aware that those gloves and sleeves will need extra cleaning. 

If something like this was to happen to Jaskier, would Geralt have defended him, like he did the Cat? Or would he say nothing? Maybe he'd say Jaskier deserved it. He wouldn't have been wrong. 

"You two certainly weren’t acquainted," notes Triss in audible disgust. 

"His heart’s missing along with his liver," Geralt decrlares, finally pulling his arm out of the Cat Witcher's chest. "Only one creature I know is that picky an eater. A _striga._ " 

_'And you,'_ Jaskier doesn't say. 

Triss snorts. A moment passes, and she seems to slowly understand that Geralt isn't one for jokes. Especially not job-related ones. 

"Strigas are old wives' tales," she says with furrowed brows. 

"They're just very rare," Geralt corrects. 

"I was correct then, it _is_ a curse. Now, what kind of curse? How do we reverse it?" 

Geralt stays quiet, doesn't move and inch. But Jaskier, who has seen this expression before, and who can tell what the deepening of the creases under Geralt's eye means, sucks in a breath and sighs. 

"Too many options, huh?" he translates. "How come you can have multiple different curses result in the same thing?" 

"There are slight differences," says Geralt, with the exact tone and expression of someone who had to memorise every miniscule variant under threat of death. "Most affect the striga's cure, some its behaviour. Until I take a closer look at it, and find the person that cast the curse, there isn't much that can be done. The curse's effects will depend on whether the person was cursing Adda, or her daughter." 

"Daughter?" Triss echoes. 

"All strigas are female," Geralt says. Jaskier snorts half-heartedly. 

"Gods, they better not make us call it _Her Royal Highness."_

* * *

King Foltest never married, and Jaskier genuinely cannot tell if it's because the King himself had been uninterested, or if his sleazy table manners made his potential partners flee in disgust. Not only that, but Triss hadn't asked for an audience with the King, nor was Geralt and Jaskier's presence announced. The massive feast on the table, which the guards were not touching and Foltest couldn't reasonably fit into himself, was there for _no_ reason. 

_Ugh._

"Miss Merigold, you were dispatched to settle a family affair, not to enlist a mutant mercenary for a game of sleuthing," says the Guard Captain, on the left side of Foltest, while the royal advisor that kicked them out earlier stood on the King's right. 

"This is no game, Captain," Triss answers just a bit too fast. "As you well know, the creature is most active during the full moon, which is today! Geralt had already proven he's invaluable. If we cooperate, we could have the striga cured by tomorrow." 

The royal advisor's eyebrow twitch, King Foltest doesn't react, and the Guard Captain frowns, moving around and behind the King's chair to stand in front of Triss. Triss herself is of a smaller stature, barely reaching Jaskier's or Geralt's shoulders. If the Captain thinks that makes her easier to intimidate, he must be stupid. She's a sorceress, for fuck's sake. 

"You say she’s a girl. Then you will refer to her as Her Royal Highness." 

_Melitele's tits, seriously?_

"Segelin, I believe urgency warrants flexibility in court decorum," says the royal advisor. Jaskier agrees with him, for once, although still has a bad taste in his mouth from the earlier treatment they received in the mines. 

"The witcher’s theory is nonsense," Captain Segelin declares, completely ignoring the other man. "Princess Adda was the people’s angel. Who’d wish to hurt her? Who'd know of her child?" 

"The person who'd sired it, perhaps?" Jaskier wants to clasp his hands over his mouth, because this is _not_ the time for him to speak up. He knows nothing of the matter. He should keep quiet. In general, really. But his mouth is already running, and it's not going to stop. "Apologies, that was crude. This is a delicate matter. Sir Captain, Sir Advisor, Your Highness, we don't mean to make fun of it. We are just trying to help. If you allow us, there will be no striga, no more dead, no miners trying to stage an uprising or leaving the palace. If you let us do our job, you will have a princess." 

Before the Captain Guard or the royal advisor say anything, Jasker pads over to the King. He bows deep, then crouches, places the backs of his hands on his knees and keeps them open and relaxed. It is a common gesture of comfort across the Continent, one of the only Temerian customs which spread outside its borders. 

King Foltest's eyes move to Jaskier. They take in his bandaged fingers, his dirty doublet, the cloak over his shoulders. Their eyes meet. His hazel gaze is full of something like sorrow and regret, a grief that burns with anger, and something turns in Jasker's mind. There's a glint in them, one that Jaskier has seen in too many parents before Geralt went to kill the monster that took their children. Things click into place. Memories dredge up a song, a tune, a limerick that an old teacher of Oxenfurt had been particilarly fond of—a Temerian himself, who spoke of the folk as _Lilies_ and refused to acknowledge Foltest as the righteous King. 

But, for _now_ , that's neither here nor there. 

"Geralt can't bring the dead back," Jaskier whispers. He keeps his face open, apologetic. Genuine and relaxed. "Princess Adda, your sister, is gone. But he can give you your niece, her child, and the part of Adda that lives in her. Temeria could have a Princess again. You could have just a little bit of your family back." 

The room is silent. Jaskier can just about feel the conniption Captain Segelin is having, the royal advisor's dark glare, the anticipation and _hope_ that's rolling off of Triss. He doesn't think about what Geralt must be feeling. It's the _third_ time Jaskier's put his foot and mouth where they don't belong. 

Foltest stands. Jaskier tentatively follows. The King's face doesn't change, and there's a little bit of grease stuck in his short mustache and beard. His steps are measured and controlled. He stops in front of Geralt. The Witcher looks unperturbed and serious as ever, but Jaskier knows the curve of its brows and the wrinkle under its eyes. Like when it prepares for a long, hard hunt. 

"Does the bard speak the truth, Witcher?" Foltest asks. "Can you bring her to me?" 

"If I find the one who cast the curse," the Witcher rumbles. It reverberates in Jaskier's heart, his lungs, ribs, from the top of his clavicle to the deepest pit of his stomach. The Witcher and The King hold each other's gaze. Jaskier's blood roars in his ears. 

"Segelin," calls Foltest, keeping his eyes locked with Geralt. The Captain straightens, armour rustling and clanking as he comes to stand by Foltest's side. "Take these three to the Old Castle. They have permission to scout it for as long as they need." 

Then, Foltest turns, facing the royal advisor, ignoring the Captain's dutiful response. 

"Your Highness, this is a-atrocious! The Witcher will surely just kill the striga. You know what they are all like. Bloodthirsty _beasts,_ " stammers the royal advisor, flushed and brimming with—what? Frustration, stress, panic, anger? Jaskier moves to stand with the Witcher and the Witch, waiting for the Captain to escort them to the old palace grounds. 

"If there is any chance he can cure Adda's child, then it's a chance I'll take," says Foltest darkly. "And if he can't..." 

The King turns to Geralt. 

"Failure has a great cost. This even moreso."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!!!! because of some timeline confusion I went through regarding Nilfgaard in the Netflix timeline, I kind of...made my own subplot/backstory about it. It's not like in the books, 'cause I have only barely begun reading those, I have not played the games, and Netflix hasn't gotten that far yet! 
> 
> We're gonna take canon apart molecule by molecule and put it back together in increasingly wrong configurations :)
> 
> Eswyllt var Emreis is Emhyr's mother, in any case. And, well, we're going to learn more about that magnificent bastard of a hedgehog when we get to the Cintran Banquet ;D


	7. Betrayer Moon II: in the loop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _'Two chapters,'_ I say, overestimating my skills to pace things properly. I shall do my BEST to finish things by next chapter :) My apologies and grievances to the readership. Its a chill one, at least? 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mentions of burns/melting flesh (striga-related, not dscribed), Jaskier's typical suicidal ideation, mild gore mention/description (old bones included), and classic canon incest.
> 
> chapter title brought to you by: idioms

The Castle of Old Vizima is a derelict monument. Gray stone upon grayer stone, faded tapestries hanging on the sides of the main entrance, tattered and frayed. If Jaskier strained his eyes, he'd see past the grime and notice that the cloth bore the royal insignia of Temerian lilies, including more realistic renditions. 

It is a stark contrast to the early morning. The sky was white-blue, clouds dark gray as the sun bathed their undersides with harsh red light. 

"The years are definitely showing," says Jaskier, who can't tell if he's amazed or unimpressed by the sight. On one hand, it's a site of history and death. On the other, it's as ugly and unimaginative as most Temerian strongholds. 

No one replies, but Captain Segelin of the Royal Guard side-eyes him with a glare. 

"Does anyone ever come in?" Jaskier asks. "During the day or otherwise." 

"The guards check for bodies of new victims every three days," answers Segelin. "Lord Ostrit sometimes comes in to look for lost documents." 

Jaskier hums and nods. Segelin leads Jaskier, the Witcher and the Witch to the entrance, where two other guards stand. They both have paled faces, which their wild gazes and heavy eyebags indicate to come from fear. Jaskier finds it in himself to pity them, just a little. It's early morning, sure, but who knows when the striga ceases its prowl? 

The guards straighten when Segelin comes close enough. 

"These three have been hired by King Foltest to investigate and cure the creature of the castle," says Segelin. He enunciates every word as though it was a command in its own right. "They are free to come and go as they wish to the Old Castle." 

"Aye, Captain!" say the guardsmen. Segelin nods at them, turns, and gives the Witcher a last glare before he leaves. Jaskier can't help but feel that it is his fault. Sure, Geralt got the job. But other than the miners, they have no idea about pay from the King. They might be doing this for free—and if that's the case, Jaskier will personally grab the Witcher's silver sword and impale himself on it. Regardless of whether they succeed or fail in curing the striga, Jaskier knows the Witcher won't be fairly rewarded. It just didn't seem in the King's nature. 

At least something will be done about the striga. 

Jaskier isn't even sure why he's being allowed on the contract. He has, after all, fucked up severely on multiple accounts, and he's a squishy human with no magical powers to protect him, nor skill with anything but words and assorted instruments. Even that is a stretch, really. He has the cuts and burns to prove he's actually pretty shit at it. 

It's good that he can come, anyway. If the striga is dangerous, as the rumours of its slaughter would imply, then this might be his lucky day! Well, night. This might be his end, and that's a lovely thought. 

Not only will he be a corpse, like those he saw in Triss' place, but he'd have died the same way. Would he keep his eyes, like the maiden? Or would he lose them, like other corpse and the Cat Witcher? 

He hopes he keeps them. They're a nice blue. He'll be a pretty corpse if they stay. 

The inside of the castle isn't much different than the outside. The entrance hall was clearly either left open to allow the wind to clear away the rubble, blowing the shattered bones and rocks into the corners, or someone had been sent in with a broom and haphazardly swept the place. 

"Should we start with the crypt?" asks Jaskier, looking at the tall windows. It isn't exactly common to have glass windows, even in castles, but Jaskier admits that what Temerian castles lacked in design and general decorum, they made up for with illustrated glass panes. 

After a prolonged silence, he refocuses on the Witcher and the Witch. They stare at him inquiringly. 

"What?" he says, hackles rising. "It's perfectly logical! That's where the striga comes from, first of all, so it's tactically advantageous. Secondly, wouldn't you be able to divine something about the curse by examining the striga as she sleeps?" 

The Witcher has a...difficult expression on its face. Jaskier doesn't think about it much—seeks comfort in the openly-impressed Triss Merigold, who also suddenly seems to shrink into herself. 

"That is a good idea," she says, posture slowly stiffening. "I can show you where it is. But, ah, I won't be able to follow you in far." 

Jaskier quirks an eyebrow. 

"Why not?" 

"Personal... _predicaments,_ " she hisses out, as though in pain at the thought. Cogs turn in Jaskier's head, giving their best efforts to _understand_ what that could mean. Jaskier chews on his lip. 

A Witch who, by extenuating circumstances, cannot join them to the striga's crypt. Triss had also mentioned not being able to get close to the creature itself. _'Ancient and powerful Chaos',_ something something. 

"Oh!" he snaps his fingers. "Are you allergic to it? The magic?" 

Triss looks ready to create a hole in the castle floor to hide in. 

"How are you even alive?" Jaskier asks. "I mean, you're a sorceress. Magic is your whole deal! How did you even study in Aretuza, when it's so saturated by it?" 

Triss sighs, bowing her head as she begins to walk. Jaskier and Geralt follow her. Jaskier can almost feel himself slipping away, Triss' voice the only thing that tethers him to whatever...everything is. There are so many bones, so many skeletons, bloodstains splattered on the walls. Jaskier keeps thinking back to the corpses. It could have been him. It could be him. It _will_ be him. His bones, his blood, his entrails hanging from the sconces. 

"I didn't actually go to Aretuza," says Triss. Her earlier shyness slowly fading away, instead replaced with a nostalgic fondness. "I was instead tutored by one of Aretuza' pupils, Yennefer of Vengerberg. My magic isn't as glamorous as some of the others', but it's useful for healing and potions and the like, which is all I really want for." 

"Plants also part of your domain?" asks the Witcher, who Jaskier had been almost certain wasn't even listening. Jaskier feels something vicious pound in his chest, a dark little voice at the back of his head. The Witcher had never really shown much interest in Jaskier, never asked about the songs and only wished for peace and quiet. Jaskier often asked the Witcher about it, however. Answers were rare, satisfying ones practically miracles. 

What is it about the Witch that makes the Witcher _ask_? That makes it _wonder_? 

"Yes!" says Triss, turning around to face the Witcher. Jaskier drifts away, he thinks. There's a sudden distance. The Witcher, usually so aware of its surroundings, doesn't seem to be looking around at all. Its eyes are focused on the Witch's confident smile. "My Chaos' natural state brings out whichever characteristics of plants I wish for it to. Even my weakest potions are infinitely more effective than the best your average mage has to offer." 

"Would make good business with Witchers," Geralt notes. Jaskier steals a glance at the Witcher's face. Gently raised eyebrows, relax mouth and eyes, soft voice. 

It's been four-to-five years since the Witcher and Jaskier had begun traveling together, and Jaskier doesn't remember a single time such gentle interest had been directed at him. 

It. Hurts. 

Jaskier shouldn't be getting attached. He has wanted the Witcher to kill him for years. But he can't help it. He likes it. And it's painful to think it doesn't like him, either. Are they friends? Jaskier wants to be friends. 

This—it dawns on Jaskier with a creeping finality that yeah, after this, the Witcher will leave him. Jaskier has been nothing but a problem and a failure, and here is a sorceress who can't be a normal mage, who has a self-defeating weakness, who _still_ is a force to be reckoned with. 

Jaskier can barely play his fucking lute. 

He wants to be alone. He wants to be alone and to brandish his knife and to not _think_ about anything but his blood rising in the cut, rising through the layers of flesh and skin, forming beads of cinnabar and ruby. Overflowing. Trailing like raindrops down his arms and legs. 

He could heat up his blade. See what the burns would be like. Perhaps they'd melt the skin into the blade, and rip off his flesh when he pulls the knife away. Ripped off skin. Like a vukodlak's tree-hanging hide. 

"Not while I'm in court," says Triss. Her complexion steadily loses its vibrance. She takes one, two steps, almost _skipping_ , when she flinches and _shakes,_ a warbled groan forcing itself out of her. She trembles and her knees buckle. Suddenly, she grows bigger and there's something heavy in Jaskier's arms. He belatedly realises he's holding the Witch. When had he moved? He hadn't thought of moving. 

"Fuck, thank you, _agkh,_ " Triss growls and groans as Jaskier's body moves of its own accord and pulls Triss further away from the striga's crypt. He hadn't realized how far they had gotten. The hallways had grown broader and more ruined, holes in the crumbling walls. There were piles upon piles of skeletons and stones, sconces and their supports ripped out of the support pillars extending from the walls. Jaskier's arms softly deposit Triss on one of the rubble piles. Geralt had covered it with his cloak. It's almost worse, really, because Jaskier knows for sure there is days-old manticore blood on the fabric, and it stinks still. 

Jaskier glances down. Bare hand. Bandaged hand. His hands? They close and open as if testing their mobility. He can't feel them. 

"Strong reaction," says Geralt. The hands— _Jaskier's hands?_ —wind around what Jaskier thinks might be his torso, tightening the cloak around him. Is it cold? He can see the Witch's and the Witcher's breaths. Must be cold. 

The Witch shrugs, leaning back against the frosted-over stony wall. She lets out a deep breath, and another, and another. 

"I should have paid more attention," she muses. Her neck straightens, and she looks at the Witcher. Jaskier thinks he's close to it, since he can clearly see Triss' face, pointed in his direction as well. "I guess this is where you two go on without me." 

"Don't make it sound so dramatic," Jaskier hears someone with his voice say. 

"The bard stays with you," says Geralt. It turns to walk away but turns. It's suddenly much close. Had Jaskier walked with it? He must've. "What part of that did you not understand? You're staying with Merigold." 

"Yeah, as if," Jaskier retorts. Does he have a body, now? His own again? "I mean, no offence," he nods at the Witch, who snorts quietly, "but I'm getting in that crypt one way or another. While my songs are fantastic, I haven't written a piece more popular than _Toss A Coin_ in years! The one time I follow you on a hunt, and it's that one song that _always_ fills our purses." Jaskier throws his arms outwards in an act of defiance, although he does not feel the confidence he projects. "This isn't an opportunity I'm just going to let pass me by." 

Geralt bares its fangs at him. He doesn't look _dangerous_ , but he sure looks angry. Jaskier wishes it'd just lose its cool and stab Jasker with the pointy end of its sword. 

Jaskier places his hands on his hips. 

"Besides, there won't be any issues," he says, scrunching his nose. "Your stench will be enough to drive it away. Seriously, Geralt, I bathed you not two days ago." 

At that, Geralt growls and slaps Jaskier's shoulder. It rings loudly in the hall, and it will bruise, but Jaskier only barely registers the pulsing ache. Triss laughs into her hand. Jaskier turns, standing sideways and off to the side. A far more polite stance, which freely includes the Witch in the conversation. 

"What is that, anyways?" asks Triss with barely contained amusement. 

"Onion," says Geralt. 

"Onion?" repeats Triss, flabbergasted. 

"He loves them almost as much as he loves his horse," says Jaskier, shaking his head and waving a hand under his nose. "It's tragic." 

" _You_ are obsessed with garlic," grumbles the Witcher. Attacking the opponent in a war of wits? The _weakest_ possible defense. Tactical suicide. Geralt would be laughed out of Oxenfurt's walls if it tried that in a discussion. 

"There's a difference between putting garlic into everything I eat, and eating onions whole, skin and all," says Jaskier, daintily raising a single brow. He waves a hand at the Witcher. "You don't even cook them half the time!" 

Triss clasps both her hands over her mouth, shoulders trembling. 

"They get too soft," says the Witcher. Jaskier makes a disbelieving noise. 

"Says you, who always overcooks potatoes into a pile of _mush?_ " 

"There's a difference," defends Geralt. 

"Oh, spare me the justifications." Jaskier rolls his eyes and heads to the royal crypt. "You're welcome to join me whenever you want." 

Geralt growls, sighs, and follows after Jaskier, moving as silently as a feather falls. 

The royal crypt is a grandiose room. It's circular, with tall, thin pillars, many of which are broken or crumbled, with shattered sconces, bones, and rocks littering the floor. It smells like piss and shit, and Jaskier pulls down a sleeve further down his hand, which he then hides his mouth and nose behind. There is the sugar-burn of moldy, rotten flesh. Many of the stained windows are shattered, but some parts of the class still hang together by the golden cames. They cast blue-tinted tunnels of light into the room. 

All along the walls lay rectangular stone tombs, their lids bearing visages of the people stored within. They are undisturbed, curiously enough. In fact, the only out-of-place tomb is the one which lays directly across the room; chunks missing from the stone statue carved into the slab of marble rock. The ridges and corners were well-worn and crudely polished from years of moving back and forward. While technically white, the natural hue of the rock was difficult to see past the blood, grime and gore which covered it. 

"Place needs some upkeep, huh?" Jaskier notes, walking straight up to the cursed princess' crypt. Bones crunch under his feet. He kicks at a handful of rocks. They echo in the chamber, and it feels strangely like a song of the damned. 

The Witcher comes to stand by Jaskier, overlooking the worn and torn tomb of Princess Adda. 

"Will she wake if we lift the lid?" asks Jaskier. The Witcher circles the marble. The fingers of its outstretched hand move and dance, as if plucking and pulling at invisible strings. Geralt's eyes are intense and golden, but just as cold as the light that paints the crypt an otherworldly pale blue. 

"Probably," says the Witcher, standing once again at Jaskier's side. "She'll die if we do." 

"Oh? Gathered that with just your hand?" Jaskier stretches out his hand, wiggling his fingers. Without its cloak on, Jaskier can see the blatant trembling of its Witcher medallion. 

"All strigas burn in sunlight," says Geralt. He sniffs the air. "She'll die if we haven't taken the steps to facilitate the curing of the curse." 

"Well then." Jaskier nods. "How can you tell if you broke the curse or not?" 

"When instead of burning to a charred husk, the striga's flesh melts and falls off." 

Jaskier sighs, looking to the skies for help, eyes simply meeting the adorned roof of the chamber. 

"See, this is why I should do the talking with clients," says Jaskier, immediately cursing his ability to speak. "You'd have told Foltest all about how the striga ate its way out of Adda's rotting body looking like a botched abortion." 

"It did and it does." 

Jaskier smacks his hands against his face. He shakes his head. Patting Geralt on the shoulder, he turns and walks back to where the Witch waits. 

"Well, there's not much to look at, from what I can tell. Let's go find more clues. Did that hand thing tell you anything, by the way?" 

"The curse was not meant for the child," says Geralt. "It was a love ritual aimed at Adda." 

"Speaking of love," says Jaskier, "please tell me I'm not the only one that thinks there's something _going on_ between Adda and Foltest?" 

They are out of the crypt and halfway to Triss when Geralt answers, simply saying; "Pretty sure Foltest is the father." 

"I knew it!" Jaskier claps his hands together with vigor. "Did you know, we had a Temerian deserter as a teacher in Oxenfurt. He despised Foltest something terrible. _'You shall know the devil of twisted lust by the Lily on his breast and his sister's blood on his twin fingers.'_ It makes so much sense now!" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees Triss shudder in disgust. 

"Please tell me you've found something more useful, too," she pleads. The Witch rises from her seat, dusting off her knees as though it was necessary, and then handing Geralt his cloak. 

"The ritual was a love curse for Adda," says Geralt, fastening his cloak around his shoulders. "The person casting it botched it, resulting in Adda's death and the striga's curse." 

"Do we know something about the striga from that, then? Cure, behaviour?" asks Jaskier. The three begin to move again, lead by Triss. Jaskier slowly starts feeling more at home in the castle. The more ribs and spines he sees, the easier it is to imagine his bones among them. Many of the sconces still attached to the walls have deteriorated or been broken, ending in sharp points that Jaskier could vividly picture himself hanging from. It was nice, to explore the place that would become his tomb. 

It started feeling like home. 

Cold castle ruins suddenly warm. 

"The person that cast the curse controls the striga," says Geralt. Anyone with functional eyes would be able to notice Geralt's frustration by the tightness in his shoulders, if his face hadn't been as obvious with that particular emotion. "We have to kill them and keep the striga out of her crypt until the sun burns her curse off." 

Jaskier shudders at the mental image. Triss sighs. 

"It all comes down to who cast it, then," she says. In the hallway, they pass a faded and grayed portrait of two blonde children in royal garb, covered head to toe in expensive silks and velvets, small tiaras on their heads. Little Foltest and little Adda. Jaskier frowns at the sight. 

"Any idea as tho who that may be?" asks Jaskier. Triss shakes her head, leading them up a staircase. They pass a couple of doors before heading into a royal chamber, covered in dust from head to toe. 

"Foltest himself, her lover from town, anyone who lusted after the angelic princess, so on and so forth," says Triss. She waves a hand, motioning to the bedroom, which Jaskier took as 'look around' and promptly did so. "There isn't really something like a love curse, a love potion or spell. They're all about control, in the end." 

"Makes sense that the striga would listen to the caster, then," says Jaskier, examining a shelf. It was wooden, but suddenly not much rotten, old books and papers still scure atop it, along with a few other objects. A music box, a hurdy-gurdy that was somehow still in a relatively good shape, decorative figurines with half their bodies gone. "Hell, the person wouldn't even have to be in love with Adda to cast that curse." 

"What makes you say that?" asks Triss form somewhere behind him. Geralt, as far as Jaskier can tell, is scenting his way through the room, nose flaring with each breath. 

"I mean, even if they didn't know about the 'it's just control' thing, it's fairly easy to manipulate someone with their affections for you," Jaskier muses, dusting off the lid of the engraved music box. "If, say, someone wanted to lay claim to the throne, or to influence Foltest through Adda's affection towards _him…_ " 

"Could be someone from the royal council," Triss breathes, and Jaskier felt pride surge through him at her mystified tone. 

"Or a simple maidservant," says Jaskier. He plucks at the only functional string of the hurdy-gurdy. It twangs unpleasantly and echoes in the empty room. 

_"Ostrit."_

Jaskier and Triss turn to Geralt, who stands stiffly in front of Adda's broken-legged bed. 

"How come?" asks Jaskier. 

"His scent is on her sheets," growls Geralt. Jaskier, holding the music box, quickly stalks towards him, Triss coming to stand on the other side of Geralt. 

Jaskier doesn't have Geralt's sense of smell, nor Triss' magic to sense whatever clues Ostrit might have left on the bed. He does, however, have an idea of what he's been doing on the bed, and it's repulsive. 

_On a dead woman's bed._

"How difficult do you think it'd be to have the striga kill that ostrich guy?" asks Jaskier. Triss bends forward and looks at him from beyond the Witcher's hulking figure, wide-eyed, with a crease between her eyebrows, and a gaping mouth. "What? Poetic justice!" 

Jaskier could already _hear_ the song, the ballad of a manipulated princess finally freeing herself from the clutches of the man who controlled her! Should he keep the magical elements? Or make it more of a psychological torture situation? Bah, he should write all iterations that come to mind and pick and choose whatever works best! Who says it even has to be one or the other? 

Fuck, where's his notebook? Probably still where he left his lute, on the fluffy bed in one of Triss' guest rooms, where he and Geralt are to sleep while they're on the strigan contract. 

Oh, he'll get to it once they're out of this damned castle. 

"We need proper evidence," Triss laments eventually. 

Jaskier sighs, feeling just a tad defeated. There's an unfortunately big chance they aren't going to find anything of note, or anything which would incriminate the man without the shadow of a doubt. 

"Can you find his trail? Check other places in the castle, see if he was there?" Jaskier asks Geralt. Adda's bedroom _is_ a good start when looking for clues, but by no means the only place with evidence. 

"I'll scout the rest of the castle myself," Geralt says with an acknowledging nod towards Jaskier. Jaskier beams at him, and goes to pat his shoulder as he usually does, but Geralt has already turned to briskly walk out into the hallway. Jaskier quickly puts his hand on the music box and opens the lid, eager to pretend nothing happened and that his lungs aren't collapsing in on themselves. 

Inside the music box is a little statuette of two dancing figures, one with a billowing skirt and the other with a rippling cape. Jaskier turn its lever, winding it as it went. It seemed to have only one song, which looped and had no discernible beginning nor end. The melody feels familiar. 

Jaskier stops the music, and instead pulls at the little bead on the bottom of the box. A little drawer emerges from the box. Empty. Jaksier sighs. 

"Do you think he loved her?" Triss's voice breaks through the now-silence, distracting Jaskier from his woes. It takes him a second to tune back into the world. 

"Maybe," he whispers. Then, he shrugs, fingers clutching at the music box's lever still. "Does it matter?" 

"I guess not," says Triss. She stands closer to him. Her hands gently take his bandaged hand, holding it with a softness Jaskier doesn't quite remember feeling from anything but his knife. "What happened?" 

"Accidentally shoved my hand into a fire," Jaskier grimaces, doing his best to sell an aura of sheepish embarrassment. Triss snorts a little. Her soft fingers unfurl the bandages. The burn is a bit bloated, and his fingers look absolutely horrid, with pale yellow patches of raised, dead skin. 

"Does it hurt?" Triss asks. She reaches under her cloak for something. 

"Not at the moment," says Jaskier. "Put some numbing cream on it." 

Triss' hand comes back into view holding a potion bottle. Instead of uncorking it and pouring it onto his hand like he'd expected Triss to, she simply places it in his hand and curls his fingers over it. Her palms are smooth and warm. 

"When we get back to my place, you should put more of that cream on it, then cut off the dead skin—" she traces a dainty finger on the unfeeling burn "—and put this potion on your burn. Gently. It will grow your skin back quickly, and you won't lose any feeling or mobility here." 

Jaskier's eyes begin to prickle at the softness of her voice, her whisper. He reigns himself in, meets her gaze without that teary shine in his eyes, and he smiles. 

"Thanks." 

The Witch beams at him. She pats his hand and turns away, examining more of the bedroom. 

Jaskier follows suit, putting the music box back on its shelf. He lets his burn breathe, and instead wraps the potion vial in his bandages, then hides it in his pocket. On a whim, Jaskier turns the music box's lever again. A familiar tune. 

He moves on to the hurdy-gurdy. His fingers pluck at the strings and the keys. While still definitely intact, the tuning of the hurdy-gurdy has fallen into Marzanna's hellish clutches. 

Then, one of the keys almost _falls out_ of the damn thing. Jaskier may not be the master of hurdy-gurdy or its structure, but he's quite sure that's not supposed to happen. But, surely enough, when he pulls at the keys, all of them move easily, stopping only midway out of their sockets. 

Music box. A familiar tune. 

Well. It can't hurt. 

He pulls at the keys to the rhythm and notes of the music box's lullaby. Barely ten notes in, something audibly clicks open. Jaskier takes the hurdy-gurdy off the little shelf. A panel swings open, almost hitting Jaskier in the chest. Papers and parchments fall out into a messy pile. 

Triss is at his side in seconds, already kneeling to sort through the papers. Jaskier puts the hurdy-gurdy back onto the shelf. He drops down. Some letters bear last vestiges and discolorations brought upon by colorful wax, other yet are parchments with poems, notes and rhymes, and Jaskier is hit with the realization that one of the pages has the tune of the music box composed on it. It bears the signature of the Temerian professor. 

Was he a lecturer at the royal court? He was a scholar, and while his musical talents were aplenty, he actually taught history at the academy. It wouldn't surprising if he had deserted Temeria because he learned of the affair between Foltest and Adda… 

Triss gasps. Jaskier pushes himself closer to her, and she huddles towards him, angling the paper so he could see. They read in tandem, sides pressed together. 

It's a latter, from Adda to Ostrit, saying in no uncertain terms that the princess no longer wishes to be involved with him, for she has fallen in love with her brother, and bears his child. 

"Does it have the date?" Jaskier asks. 

"Twelve-thirty-nine," Triss whispers. "The year Adda gave birth. Probably not long before she started showing." 

"Is this enough evidence?" Jaskier asks. Triss shakes her head, but Jaskier can tell it's less of a hard 'no' and more simple uncertainty. 

"Probably, but we need something more incriminating," says Triss. The two stand and dust their knees, not quite bothering to look at the rest of the letters. "Something _definite._ " 

"Segelin mentioned Ostrit came in looking for papers now and then," Jaskier says. "He could be gathering the letters. Hiding them in his study, perhaps?" 

"Or burning them," Triss posits. Jaskier shrugs, marching towards the hallway. 

"We should check anyway. Who knows what could be hidden there? Anyways, uh, could you divine where Geralt might be?" 

Triss nods, falling into step with Jaskier. She brings out two metal rods, shaped like particularly stiff L's. She grips one in each hand, rubs them against Jaskier's cloak, and then presses them close. 

"What was that for?" 

"I had to get Geralt's trace. It's all over you, if you haven't noticed." 

The rods pull up as if a force was keeping them parallel to the ground, and move together in perfect sync to point the pair in the Witcher's direction. 

Geralt's hadn't actually gotten all that far—a mere five-minute-run away, in smaller chambers that had just as opulent furniture and oversized bed. The Witcher had lifted a surprisingly well-preserved rug, which took up a major part of the room floor. Triss' knees buckle and she yelps as she and Jaskier run through the door. Jaskier's hands shoot out and catch her. 

There is a massive circle with Elder insignia burnt into the wooden panelling. 

"I'm good, I'm good," says Triss into Jaskier's shoulder. He lets her go, and she stands on trembling knees, one hand gripping his shoulder. 

"What is that?" Jaskier asks. 

"Site of the ritual," says Geralt, studying the runes. Jaskier recognizes them, but doesn't particularly understand the gibberish they spell out. Some words are in fact correct, but others look like crude guesswork made by a six-year-old who has not yet realized Elder Speech and Common Speech are two different languages. 

"How the hell did it work if the guy can't spell?" Jaskier quirks a brow. 

"Rituals are the safest, most thorough methods of spellcasting," Triss groans out, shaking her head to stay upright. "Even the simplest one has hundreds of failsafes to make it work. This… this just means the curse was slightly altered." 

"I'll have to fight the striga until the rooster crows three times," Geralt growls, slamming his knuckles against the wood. He rises and strides towards the entrance, so Jaskier pulls Triss away from the circle. The effect is immediate. The magic must've been contained to the room. 

"Wasn't that the plan already?" asks Jaskier. He's fairly sure Geralt mentioned needing the sun to burn off the striga's flesh for the curse to truly lift. 

"The plan was to kill the cursecaster, which put the striga to slumber. Now, the plan is to kill the cursecaster, which will send the striga into a blind rage." Geralt starts to lead their research party out of the castle. Jaskier notes that it must be late noon already, despite it not feeling like they've spent that much time in the castle at all. He thinks they've entered more rooms than he remembers. "If I don't keep her out of the crypt the night the cursecaster dies, the curse will either be permanent, or kill the princess in her sleep." 

"So," says Jaskier, "you're fucked?" 

Geralt doesn't reply, which has Jaskier cursing in his head, because _fuck, _if the Witcher doesn't outlive Jaskier, he's going to be very mad.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering: would you guys be interested in a 'Fic Predictions Bingo' kind of thing? I could make a bingo card, y'all could make predictions of story beats and plot-threads and character stuff for this story, and if you're right, I'll put them on the bingo! (Where exactly they shall be put will be up to a random numbers generator). I'll try to keep it as unspoilery as possible, but since I'm thinking of uploading the Bingo Updates onto tumblr, I could always put the spoiler bingo updates under Read More and just write 'Spoiler' on the Card itself. 
> 
> AO3 user Ynx, for example, had guessed that bandits are going to be involved as some point :D though not quite _what_ the encounter with them is gon be like.


	8. Betrayer Moon III: on pins and needles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the link to the bingo!: https://maarchi.tumblr.com/otbu-bingo  
> So far, we have 3 filled squares! There were so many Roach guesses and people thinking the boys have the skills to honestly open up and talk it out. I'm sorry my guys but these boys are stupid. And guys, just you wait until we get to that one Roach Subplot. Y'all seem so hyped for her.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: This is actually a pretty tame chapter! A little bit of kidnap, some accidental cuts, and maaaaybe body horror (with the striga)?
> 
> Also, never ever trust me when I say that we'll finish an arc in x amount of chapters. I am fooling myself. I have no idea of how words work. This is the third installment and I said this would be the last, but nope!! We at least need to cure the striga. That is definitely a next chapter thing. Then there's shit to do after that....

Rather than waltzing into New Vizima with a plan no less advanced than 'check Ostrit's office', they congregate in Triss' hut around a table of unknowable devices. To Jaskier, at least. Both Triss and Geralt appear to be more than aware of their function. Thankfully, Triss doesn't mind explaining them. 

"This," she says, lifting what appeared to be a particularly bedazzled snuff box, decorated with spindly cog patterns on the sides and oversized crystals, "is a xenovox. Also called xenogloss. It'll allow us long-distance communication." 

She twists the lid and lifts it. The inside of the xenovox is a mess of sparking wires and spinning cogs of various shapes, sizes, and directions, and it all must be contained by some mysterious magic, because there is no way that much insanity can fit into such a tiny space. It all is protected by thick glass. The light of the candles and sconces in Triss' home make the engravings in the glass shimmer, runes in Elder at the top and bottom, which say 'alert' and 'speak' respectively. 

"Since you don't have any training in Chaos like Geralt and I do, you must put blood on the engravings to be able to activate them," says Triss. Jaskier cocks his head, tentatively accepting the offered xenovox and lid into his hands. 

"Why, exactly?" he asks. He doesn't java a problem with it, but the logic doesn't quite add up. 

"Blood is one of the most powerful magical conduits," Triss explains. "It isn't a… source of power, like Air or Water, but it attracts Chaos to it. That's why non-mages like Ostrit can use rituals, almost all of which call for blood." 

Jaskier shrugs. Who is he to argue with that? He twists the lid back onto the little box and hides it in his doublet's inner breast pocket. Hidden under the thick material and folds of his cloak, Jaskier pats it just for good measure. Triss hands another such xenovox to Geralt and grabs one for herself. 

Triss breathes in deeply, closing her eyes for a second. "I will prepare some potions. If it truly is Ostrit, he might have more people on his side, even if we do prove he's behind the curse. Do you have a weapon?" she turns to Jaskier. He shakes his head, his little blade suddenly heavy on his arm. 

"He's not going with us," Geralt says. "If it does come to a fight, he'll only be a liability." 

"Geralt, you saw how easily he swayed Foltest." Triss' hand flies up and she raises a finger at the Witcher. "He might prevent the fight from ever happening." 

And doesn't that sting, that Triss, who knew Jaskier for half a day and half a night, has more faith in him than Geralt? The Witcher with whom Jaskier spent almost every waking moment with for the past four-to-five years. 

Although...that says something about Jaskier rather than Geralt, doesn't it? Geralt knows Jaskier and his skills and habits rather thoroughly at this point, after all this time. It would make sense. Hell, Geralt pays enough attention that he'd once told Jaskier about an instrument stall at a market, explicitly mentioning they sold lute strings. Jaskier hadn't mentioned the strings of his lute were getting worn, nor had he said anything about his reserves getting depleted. The Witcher, for all his grumbling and grumpiness, is a good person at heart. Even to Jaskier. He is, also, a logical, rational, practical person. Geralt knows Jaskier is useless. 

Triss, on the other hand? Gods, Jaskier has tricked her. One time he gets lucky, one time a desperate father falls to his manipulations and lies, and she thinks him capable. How atrocious of him. How fucking disgusting, to lie to someone like that, to make them rely on him like that. He'll only let her down. Jaskier should explain. Should clear this up. 

" _Auhm._ " Oh no. Words. They're—Jaskier can't—he's—oh no, no no, he doesn't know how to say, what to say, they're going stare at him and think him more stupid than he already is—which is scarcely possible—but at least Triss will realize she's been _deceived_ ⸻ 

But neither the Witch nor the Witcher pay him any mind. 

"Aren't you the court mage? You can easily speak for yourself," Geralt growls. Triss rolls her eyes so hard her entire head follows the motion. Her fists rest at her hips. 

"Have you been listening to anything I said?" Triss says. "I've been sent by the Brotherhood. The Temerian court has a different mage, Fercart." 

"And why hasn't he done anything about the striga, then?" asks Geralt. 

"A ritual's ancient Chaos is not something that we mages can easily deal with. I've told you so already." Triss waves an angry finger at Geralt again. "The only reason I was sent is that I'm the only mage who can create potions potent enough to kill or cure the creature." 

Jaskier wants to sink into the floor; a feeling he always got when he's found his parents fighting or arguing, either between themselves or with another party. 

"And Fercart isn't helping, because?" Geralt retorts. 

"He's an egocentric prick who's fragile little sense of self couldn't take being usurped by a different mage," Triss hisses. "He's been squandering my plans for a week straight when I first came before he found more important matters to tend to. The Brotherhood also believes he wants the people to revolt against Foltest, seeing as he's a Nilfgaard sympathizer." 

"Before this riveting debate of court politics and their incompetence becomes overly antagonistic," Jaskier butts in, slapping a hand on Geralt's shoulder, "how about we actually make a plan and prepare for it?" 

Triss and Geralt share one last frustrated look before Triss sighs and nods to herself, straightening to stand a little taller. 

"I don't think we have any plan available that would necessitate personalized preparations," Triss notes. "Geralt, just give Jaskier a damn dagger. I will go work on potions, and give you a few explosive beads when we're ready to go out." She lifted a brown candle with evenly spaced out green circled stripes. She put her fingers on the wick, and when she took them off, the candle shone with a pale green flame. "We'll meet again when the fire reaches the green wax." 

Jaskier lifts a hand. "How will we know?" 

"You'll smell mint." and at that, Triss stalks out of the room and to whichever laboratory she uses to produce her potions. 

Jaskier realizes with horror that he hasn't cleared up Triss' misconceptions. It's far too late to do it now without it being terribly awkward. Jaskier curses himself. Sweet Triss believes he's actually of use _and_ hopes he'll diffuse a fight caused by a royal scandal. 

Geralt sighs by his side. Jaskier's stomach twists. 

"I'm so—" 

"Come on," says Geralt at the same time, moving out of his spot. "We shouldn't waste time." 

Jaskier follows after Geralt and to their room. Jaskier's lute and notebooks are still haphazardly laying on the mattress, whilst Geralt's thing's are strategically placed in the corner. The Witcher goes to shuffle through his bags. Jaskier instead elects to take a seat on the bed. He thinks about Ostrit and the striga, the curse and the cure, the upcoming little confrontation of theirs. 

If the striga was born in twelve-thirty-nine as Triss says, then she should be around four years old. At least when winter passes. 

Jaskier stops. Rewinds. Thinks that again. 

That… he will have to ask Triss about. 

"So," he says to Geralt instead, "which dagger am I getting?" 

Geralt glares at Jaskier over his shoulder. There's a metallic flash, the sound of blade against blade, and something long, thin, and sharp glints through the air. The Witcher had thrown a knife. 

_Oh, yes, finally!_

The dagger's handle clangs against the rock wall behind Jaskier. It falls on the bed, first hitting the lute's strings and sending out a warbled mess of noise, then landing on the soft covers. Jaskier could not contain the disappointment. He hid it with outrage, instead. 

"How dare you!" he yells, yanking his lute into his hands. "My lovely lady, oh, what had the evil Witcher done to you?" he rubs fingers across his lute's soundboard. There's a bit of scratched polish and paint on it, a tiny little mark, and it's awful. "Shhh, shhh, dearie, we'll fix that. Paint a beautiful flower to hide the scar. Honey, I'm so sorry." 

Geralt scoffs. 

He digs out his sword keeping kit and joins Jaskier on the bed. Jaskier plays a short little melody to check the strings. They technically, rationally, sound fine. But to Jaskier, in that moment, it all sounds stiff, and his fingers tremble. He gives a faux-casual shrug, gently puts his lute away, and grabs the discarded dagger. He's still mad it didn't hit him. Even if it was thrown with the dull end, if Geralt had thrown it hard enough, he could have crushes Jaskier's skull in and let him die like that. Not the worst of fates. 

The dagger is wavy. 

_What the hell?_

The blade is roughly a hand's length, about the same as the grip, which has a flat top but is curved outwards at the bottom, with indents right before the end and the blade to protect the fingers from slipping onto the blade. It's simple. What's not simple is the wavy blade. Double-sided, with serpentine curves all the way to the very pointy tip. 

Jaskier tries it in his grip. It held best like the average cutting knife and in reverse grip. Holding it just so, Jaskier stabs at the air, holding his thumb to the pommel. 

"Why does it look like that?" Jaskier asks, letting the dagger lie flat in his hands for a closer examination. The metal was a particularly dark, shimmering blue, which revealed spiraling designs in the flaws of the dye when the light hit at different angles. The pale white handle seemed to be made out of ivory. 

"The curves create more abrasions in a stab wound, slice flesh better than straight lines, and blades make bounce off of it more easily," explains the Witcher. And while those are all practical and reasonable choices to make a blade so flamboyantly wavy, Jaskier would also like to know why it has such coloring, seeing as _Geralt_ and _color_ and _fancy bone handles_ don't exactly go together. 

"And the rest?" Jaskier asks. Geralt hums inquisitively as he takes out his various sword oils and whetstone. Curiously, he's sharpening his steel sword, the silver perched in the corner by his belongings. " _You knooow_ , the unusual hues?" 

Geralt freezes for a second. He gets to sharpening his sword with the whetstone, turning his body slowly but not imperceptibly away from Jaskier. 

Jaskier's face breaks into a smile. He clambers forward, puts his chin on Geralt's shoulder, knocking their temples together, and snakes his arms around Geralt's waist. 

"Oh? Embarrassed?" Jaskier prods. Geralt doesn't say anything, nor does he try to brush Jaskier off. He doesn't so much as twitch or flinch, simply continues to work on his tools of trade. The Witcher does, however, turn his face just slightly to the side. Not before Jaskier sees a blotchy wash of lavender on his cheeks. "Did you make it for me?" 

"Fuck off, bard," says Geralt, far too quickly. 

Jaskier makes a noise he can scarcely believe is human, but it definitely conveys his joy and excitement. 

He lifts himself and pushes forward, quickly swinging into Geralt's lap. Geralt's Witchery senses and reflexes worked fast enough that he moved the sword away in time, or else Jaskier would have to complain about his newly-sliced ass. 

Instead, whole and happy, he holds onto Geralt's shoulders and tries to make eye contact with the Witcher's averted eyes. 

"Did you make it yourself? Or commission a smith?" Jaskier asks, smiling still. "Oh, oh, oh! What about the colors? The bone? Is it from a monster? Is it a monster bone? Is it steel? Silver?" 

Geralt stays turned away, minimally curling into himself. Jaskier's face softens at the sight. He sighs softly. Geralt doesn't move, neither into the warm hug Jaskier wraps him in, nor away, but he does seem to relax a bit. 

"Thank you, Geralt. I love it," says Jaskier. 

Then, he gets off of Geralt, and to his new dagger. Lacking in yarn and other thicker thread, Jaskier takes off one of his lute's strings and straps the blade to his thick with it. Easily hidden by his thick cloak. He tugs the cloth aside to marvel at the blade at his thigh. It fits wonderfully with the pale blue outfit he's wearing. 

When Jaskier looks up, he sees Geralt watching him from the corner of his eye, not at all focused on the whetstone gliding across his sword. Jaskier sticks out his leg and wiggles his fingers, motioning at the dagger with a smirk. Geralt lets out the smallest scoff. 

"Tell me, Witcher, do I look like a seductress yet?" Jaskier asks, striking a pose. Geralt lets out a bigger scoff. 

"You wouldn't be able to seduce a prostitute if you had offered all the world's gold," says the Witcher. 

Jaskier gasps in mock offense and slaps the Witcher's shoulder. 

"I must inform you that the prostitute would pay _me_ to get into _her_ bed!" he says. Geralt shakes his head at him, returning to his whetstone and sword. Jaskier laughs under his breath, sitting by Geralt again, pressing their sides together. 

"So," he starts, "why are you preparing steel? You'll probably fight the striga right after Ostrit's death, shouldn't you be using silver?" 

"Silver would kill her," Geralt says, his deep voice sending tingles down Jaskier's spine. "I'll have to defend myself for the whole night. Anything but steel and I'd accidentally slice her head off." 

Jaskier hums, considering. Yeah, he can imagine that. Geralt's defense is usually an offense in and of itself, putting the opponent on the backburner and brutalizing them quickly. At least, that's how he works in fights with bandits, common thieves, the average assholes, so on and so forth. If he were to apply the same fighting style to the striga, Jaskier would expect at least one missing limb. Best case scenario. 

"And mine?" Jaskier asks, pressing that thigh into Geralt's. 

"Steel core, silver coating," Geralt answers. 

"Like your swords, then?" 

Geralt hums in confirmation. He seems to be feeling awkward, going by the crease between his eyebrows and widened eyes. Jaskier smiles. He softly thumps his head against Geralt's shoulder and gets up, striding towards the door. 

"I've got something to ask Triss about," he says, turning to look at Geralt in the doorway. "Plus, gotta show off this sexy beast." He taps the dagger through the layers of cloth. 

Geralt makes a very unflattering face at Jaskier, who decides to be the mature one and stick out his tongue. Then he runs out, slamming the door behind him. 

Finding Triss is not that difficult. Jaskier must simply follow the twistier and wrigglier flowers and vines. 

He finds the Witch in a spacious room with many shelves and cabinets, many of which fully displayed various flora of multicolor hues and fauna parts kept in jars of mysterious preservative fluid. Triss herself was standing in the middle of the room, inside a circular table with the smallest break, through which one could squeeze into the empty middle. On the table were various bottles, meat pieces, and various gelatinous substances of frankly concerning colors. 

"Mint's not in the air yet," notes Triss, with obvious amusement. Jaskier walks over to stand in front of her, where she seems to be cutting a very thin meatloaf into very tiny pieces, placing them in crumpled paper balls. 

"I'm pretty much ready for the show, anyway," says Jaskier. He dramatically swings back his cape, exposing the dagger on his thigh. He strikes a magnificent pose, standing on his tippy-toes. Triss gasps delightfully. She leans over the table to get a better look. 

"Oh, it's so pretty!" 

"Mhm!" Jaskier nods. "And guess what?" he leans over conspiratorially, cloak hiding the dagger again. "Geralt had it custom made for me." 

"So cute!" she says, smiling, before going back to cutting the meatloaf. She put a bit into a pad of paper and motioned at it. "Wrap it for me?" 

"Sure." Jaskier did just so. On the third wrapped meatloaf, he asks: "What is that, anyway?" 

"Flashbangs," says Triss. "We want to keep any fighting as nonlethal as possible, striga included. So, to even out the fight," she points to the flashbangs, very proud, "flashbangs. Stun and blind opponents, giving others of us a break." 

Jaskier grabs one, tosses and catches it, examining it in its little wrap. "It looks so innocuous," he says. Triss grins, confident. 

Ultimately, however, Jaskier came to Triss for a different reason. 

"There's been something I've been wondering about," Jaskier says, tone serious. Triss immediately sobers up, putting away the flashbang meatloaf and the cutting knife. "You said that Adda gave birth to the striga in twelve-thirty-nine. However, it seems that for a while, at least the peasanty, haven't connected the striga to Adda's babe until what, a few moons ago? And how did no one notice a cursed babe getting born?" 

Triss opens her mouth to answer, then closes it, then stands there with her mouth slightly agape, thinking. She takes a deep breath in, breathes it out. 

"I'm...not sure," she says, eventually. "I arrived when that information was already available, I just thought they had buried the child with Adda because they thought the deformations killed it." 

"Are they alive? The midwives and everyone else that watched the birth?" Jaskier asks. 

"No," Triss gasps. "No one besides Foltest and the royal council. As far as I'm aware, no knights witnessed the birth, but some did guard it…difficult to say who, and they could have died doing their job." 

"The palace staff is free game for silent slaughter." 

"Foltest knew, all this time," Triss says. Her eyes were wide. "Foltest knew it was his child all this time, that's why he didn't do anything about it. I thought—I thought he learned only recently." 

"He could have told the court mage not to do anything about it." 

"Then the Brotherhood sent me. That explains the sabotages. The council doesn't have to care, and any of them could be loyal to Foltest or Ostrit without it making a difference with the striga." 

"Ostrit knows we know." 

Jaskier and Triss look at each other. 

"Ostrit wants revenge on Foltest. Wants to see the people turn on Foltest like Adda turned on Ostrit. Fercart wants a second Nilfgaard." Triss shakes her head, taps her hands on the table, her eyes flit wildly. 

"What if Geralt was wrong and Ostrit meant the curse to get the striga, using her against both Foltest and Adda, but Adda died in the process?" Jaskier theorizes. Triss shrugs. 

"I don't know. Does it matter?" Triss asks. 

"' _The curse's effects will depend on whether the person was cursing Adda, or her daughter,'_ Geralt had said." 

"Fuck," says Triss. Jaskier nods empathically. 

_Knock knock knock._

Jaskier jumps, while Triss freezes to her spot. Their gazes meet, then stare at the laboratory's door. 

Triss is the first to move. She jerks herself through the little break in the table's panels, heading straight for the exit. Jaskier grabs one more flashbang from the table, stuffs it into his pocket with the one he already held and follows after the Witch. 

When Triss opens the phone, she and Jaskier are greeted with the sight of a youthful teenage boy covered in a most adorable stitched shawl at least three times his size. The boy has the barest metal plats on his forearms and shins, looking every bit like an overzealous squire. He straightens immediately upon seeing the two adults, nose raised almost completely facing the sky. 

"Greetings, Ma'am! Greetings, Sir! On behalf of Captain Segelin of the Royal Guard, I come with a message for Master Bard Jaskier!" the boy shouts out mechanically. He clearly went over it in his head multiple times before arriving, and Jaskier feels an immediate kinship. 

"Grettings, little one!" Jaskier smiles. "I am Jaskier." 

The boy bows at the waist, holding an almost perfect ninety-degree angle. 

"His Royal Highness wishes to see you immediately!" says the squire. Jaskier shares an uneasy look with Triss. 

"Of course!" says Jaskier. "Did His Royal Highness tell you why?" 

"His Royal Highness wishes to discuss the music to be played at the upcoming celebratory feast!" the squire straightens. Seeing Jaskier's confused face, he continues: "For when you rid Her Royal Highness of her curse." 

Triss stiffens. Jaskier puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. He nods at the squire. That is pretty good, actually. He wasn't going to be of any use to the Witcher and the Witch, anyway, and this way he doesn't have to face the mortifying ordeal of letting Triss know. Although he _should_ come clean about his shortcomings and the deception soon. 

Instead, he steps past Triss and out the door. 

"I would hope my lute isn't necessary for simple discussions, as it is lightly damaged and needs new strings," Jaskier says. The boy shakes his head, walking backward whilst still turned to Jaskier. 

"No mention of lutes in the message, Sir!" the boy yells. 

"Fantastic." Jaskier bobs his head. "Take me to the King, then." 

"Yessir!" 

The boy turns, marching on with uncomfortably exaggerated movements. Triss is quiet behind him, but obviously disgruntled. With the squire's back to him, Jaskier takes out the xenovox and quietly opens the lid. He puts it at the bottom of the box and holds his hands behind his back, showing the contraption to Triss. His free hand travels to the dagger on his thigh. Hopefully, the blood will work, as Triss said. 

Jaskier quickly presses down with the back of his thumb, not far from the nail, and flicks his hand. Blood trickles down his finger, cooling quickly in the early winter air. The sky begins to darken far too quickly. Jaskier quickly puts the blood drops on the xenovox's inscription of 'talk', since Triss already knows Jaskier has it ready. The glass changes color from transparent to tinted black. 

"Is it just the King I shall be speaking with?" Jaskier asks. "If it's for a celebration, it seems like quite a few people will be involved in the discussion." 

The boy nods. Jaskier wonders, is the boy twelve, rather than the standard fourteen? He's short enough, and his childish enthusiasm has not yet worn off. 

"The meeting is to be discussed in the royal council's office!" says the squire. 

"With the full cabinet?" 

"Oh, I don't think so! Certain Lords are on _de-le-ga-tive_ envoys," says the squire. 

"What about Lord Ostrit?" asks Jaskier. 

"He shall be at the meeting!" 

Jaskier nods, then remembers the boy can't see him, so he hums. Bringing the xenovox forward, he wiped away the blood with the inside of his sleeve as much as he can before hiding it in his breast pocket again. 

He looks around as he follows the boy, admiring the scenery through the dark. His eyes had been getting better at seeing in the dark throughout the years. Temeria, as boring and basic as its castles tend to be, has rather beautiful scenery of greenlands, forest groves, and temperate weather. Velen, however, is a black stain on Temeria's rich landscape—an unfortunate place of swamps, damp forests, and beasts crawling through every nook and cranny. Even Geralt doesn't like the place but goes there when they need as much coin as they can get. Plenty of work in that wretched place. 

The squire takes Jaskier through the many hallways of the castle and the staircases. Sometimes, the boy would start humming under his breath as he skipped along, but then remembered himself and stopped. To encourage the boy, Jaskier started humming an old Temerian tune. The boy recognized it. And so, every so often, Jaskier and the squire would skip down the halls of New Vizima. 

Eventually, they get to the council room, in front of which stood Lord Ostrit himself. He looked mildly peeved. 

Jaskier and the boy nod at each other with a quick exchange of farewells. Then, Jaskier is left alone with Ostrit, who looks ready to castrate Jaskier. 

"There you are!" he says, red in the face. "We have been looking for you." 

"My apologies," says Jaskier sheepishly, and gives a curt bow. "We have been ensuring our evidence and theories were thoroughly examined." 

Ostrit sneers. 

"And what would those theories be?" he asks. Jaskier smiles and shrugs. 

"Well, the Witcher and the Witch know more about magic than I do," he deflects. "They will be arriving to meet with the King as soon as they narrow it down to the correct conclusion." 

"Might take a while," snorts Ostrit. 

"It might," Jaskier agrees, stepping closer to the door. He motions at it with his hands. "Shall we?" he raises a brow. 

Ostrit says nothing but nods politely. He swings the door open for Jaskier, who walks in confidently, not realizing it's far too quiet for a council room until he's already inside. His brain catches up to his sight—there is no one here. 

Jaskier's heart stills. He whips around, ready to scream and punch Ostrit in the face. Instead, white powder fills his eyes and nostrils and mouth, and it burns and it's sweet and Jaskier falls to the floor. He heaves and heaves, powder stuck to the back of his throat. He can't breathe. 

_He can't breathe._

Jaskier glares at Ostrit, baring his teeth and growling, letting out what little air was left in his lungs. Ostrit didn't smile as Jaskier expected. Instead, he stood tall and mighty, hands on his hips, one foot tapping impatiently. 

Jaskier's body naturally begins fighting against the powder. Tears fall from his eyes in steady streams, and he's coughing and coughing and coughing, and his throat is _so dry_ and fuck, those are blood splatters coming from his mouth. 

His heart doesn't beat faster, though. It slows and slows, and Jaskier's mind becomes sluggish. He doesn't mind dying. What he does mind is that instead of being killed by Geralt or whatever the Witcher was hunting, he has to die in such an impersonal way; there are hundreds of staff and nobles who die by poison and other means in castle walls. 

But hey, death is death. 

Jaskier lets himself succumb to the powder quickly. The Witcher and the Witch will know what's happened as soon as they begin their own investigation. 

Death is death. And this one is actually pretty nice. 

Jaskier's so sleepy. 

* * *

His first thoughts when he wakes are _'could Marzanna please just take me'_ , _'aw fuck, my throat'_ and _'aw fuck, my hands'._

His eyelids are sandpaper, his throat is probably shredded by barbed wire, and whatever the fuck is holding his hands together has ripped off the old skin of his burn and shredded what little new tissue had built under it. 

Something with a blunt point stabs him in the stomach. It wrings air out of his lungs and he falls to his side, face pressed to the cold, rough floor, groaning and struggling for air. His eyes shoot open. It's dark. 

"Ah, you're finally awake," says a delighted voice. Jaskier's eyes snap to the figure. Ostrit. Behind him was a shelf with a hurdy-gurdy. 

Adda's room. In Old Vizima. 

Jaskier pulls at his binds, but in the end, it only makes him shout in pain. Fuck. It's as if his hand was burning again. The ache is duller, deeper, but constant and pulsing. It makes Jaskier wriggle on the floor like a worm, gasping and groaning. He snaps his eyes shut tight. 

"Now, now, I didn't rough you up that bad, stop complaining," says Ostrit. His footsteps come closer, closer until Jaskier can _smell_ the polished leather. Then Jaskier's hair is pulled, tugged, and it hurts, lifting his head and shoulders. Jaskier scrambles to push himself up with his knees. 

The tugging stops. Jaskier is shoved back against something thing, hard and very tall, with dents and bulges. A bedpost. Jaskier's blood thunders in his ears. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If and when Geralt finds out about this, he's going to bust in and try to save Jaskier. And if Jaskier is alive, Ostrit can— _will_ use Jaskier to control Geralt. 

Fuck, this will get Geralt killed. 

Shit, shit, _fuck_ , if all this doesn't kill Geralt, then he'll kick Jaskier to the curb for being a weakness. He's already going to do so, anyway, considering the bullshit Jaskier has pulled in Dorian and the mines and with Foltest, all puffed up with importance like he knew anything about the topic. Maybe Jaskier could have begged his way out of that. Jaskier could fall to his knees and beg and grovel and promise not to do anything to wrong Geralt like that again and Jaskier would honor that promise with every fiber of his being, would do anything to be allowed a place at Geralt's side even after such stupid mistakes. 

But for this? 

No amounts of groveling will make up for the fact that Jaskier is a tactical liability. He's a failed bard, a failed writer, a failed son, and a disinherited Count, cast away and banned from Lettenhove's border. 

This isn't anything new, either. Jaskier was a shell walking around with no memories or thoughts for months, long enough that it's early bloody winter. Fuck, it's starting to be early bloody winter, and it's snowing, and the pass to fucking Kaer Morhen is closed, now. Shit, fuck, shit. Did Geralt stay behind just to take care of Jaskier? And this is how Jaskier repays him? By fucking up his contract negotiations and getting kidnapped by some control freak with a murder streak? 

Gods, how's Geralt going to last through the winter? What will he do? Roach is an amazing horse but even she has her limits, like tiny fences and getting stuck on rooftops, and she's not going to be able to travel through the snows. Geralt won't just leave her. Hell, Geralt _can't_ travel without her at all, not just for emotional attachments. Snows that pile on roads are far too tall to travel anywhere close to efficiently, tiresome and dangerous. Sleeping anywhere but in a house is a death sentence. 

And Jaskier pretty much just signed it. Who would take a Witcher into their homes? Especially Geralt, who's even paler, grayer, more inhuman than the rest—who fears his own inhumanness and wouldn't force it on anyone. 

Fuck. Jaskier is really one major fuckup. 

"How long will it take your Witcher to come here, I wonder?" says Ostrit, pulling Jaskier out of his musings. 

Jaskier nearly spits in his face, but at the last second decides against it. He glares at Ostrit instead, looking him straight in the eyes with as much rage as he can muster up. 

"Fuck you," he says. Ostrit purses his lips, nods, and drives his hand into Jaskier's stomach. Jaskier doubles over with a gasp. 

Ostrit grabs Jaskier by the neck and lifts him back up. 

"I'll admit, I don't much know about the powers that Witchers possess," he says. "Enlighten me. It'll make this fight quick and painless." 

"Somehow, I don't trust that," Jaskier grinds out. Ostrit shrugs. Jaskier breathes in deeper, coughs, and something slick and coppery fills his mouth. Blood and spit. _Oh, joy._ Jaskier refocuses on Ostrit. "Why even do all this?" 

Ostrit's face transforms from easy confidence to hot red anger. 

"Foltest had no right!" Foltest screams. He slams Jaskier back against the bedpost. "He seduced Adda. Abused his position. He was always _nagging_ her for attention, obsessed with her like a zealot. But he didn’t love her. _I_ did." 

Ostrit's hand is still on Jaskier's throat, but it's not squeezing to choke. Jaskier wishes it was—maybe he'd accidentally kill Jaskier in his rage, and everything would be over. 

"Adda and I were so close. She came to me with everything, whether it be the court or feelings or dreams," Ostrit says. His eyes gloss over for a second. Jaskier changes his stance, Ostrit not noticing. He pulls on the lutestring at his thigh. It slides easily enough. The dagger follows, gliding slowly but surely towards his aching hands. 

"She wanted to leave the court," says Ostrit. "She wanted to see the world, learn about people and other cultures. She had once said she wished to be a dryad of Brokilon but didn't want to leave me. We loved each other." 

Ostrit's face transforms into unadulterated rage yet again. He kicks at the rotten wood of the bed. It shatters easily. Ostrit grips Jaskier's throat tighter, but still not choking him. Jaskier knows that there will be bruises there. Probably already are. 

"Then Foltest did something to her. Used a trick to make her go to him, not me. It was gradual at first, but I know Adda better than I know the back of my hand. She wouldn't have done that. Not like that, not to me." 

Jaskier freezes in surprises, sore muscles throbbing. 

"Foltest put a curse on her?" he asks. Ostrit's head shakes and his wild eyes dart around. 

"A curse, spell, enchantment," says Foltest. "Doesn't matter. He turned Adda on me. When I found that letter she was writing to me...I couldn't believe it. I spent months trying to save her, to be with her. Nothing worked. So I did what Foltest did. It didn't work. The child was born several weeks too early. It was horrifying." 

"You saw it?" Jaskier asks. He starts pulling the back of his cloak up, pooling it at his wrists. The dagger is _so_ close, almost _there_... 

"Oh, I saw it. And what a horror it was. Adda was split in half by the thing." Ostrit presses Jaskier into the bedpost, hard enough that the wood creaks. Ostrit doesn't notice. "I always knew the monster was hers. I can't let it die, but I can't let you cure it, either. Foltest will see all of Temeria turn against him, as he turned Adda on me. And it will be his own child that does it." 

Jaskier smiles uneasily, gulping down the blood and spit pooling in his mouth. His throat is burning. 

"That one very long term plan," he notes. "Got a lot of patience, I see." 

Ostrit leans in closer, red-faced, wild-eyed, and wrathful. Jaskier's forehead tingles, the hair at the back of his head stands on end. 

"I will do anything to get my revenge," says Ostrit. It's terrifying, looking into his eyes. Jaskier can see little but rage. Ostrit is not lying when he says that. 

His eyes flick to the side. 

Jaskier's world turns and blurs, and the _back_ of his neck is suddenly held in a bruising grip, while a small pocketknife presses against his throat. Ostrit presses down into the already abused spots on his neck and Jaskier's vision darkens at the corners before refocusing on Geralt. In what little light there is in the room, Jaskier sees Geralt's black armor fade into the darkness of the hallway behind him. His steel sword glistens red, his hair is messy and there are splatters of something dark on his face. Blood. It almost blends in with the dark veins across his body and face, leading to Geralt's pitch-black eyes, which almost blend in with the purplish-gray circles around them. 

"Not a single step forward," says Ostrit. 

Geralt bares his teeth and growls but doesn't move a millimeter. 

"Let him go," he says. 

In response, Ostrit's hand grips Jaskier's hair, pulling him all the way back to lean on his shoulder. Jaskier's feet stay planted firmly on the ground, and he tries to keep as much weight as he can away from Ostrit. Being leaned back like that actually makes gathering his cloak easier. Jaskier speeds up, hoping Ostrit is suitably distracted. 

"If you let him go," Geralt tries again, "and tell us how to lift the curse, we'll let you live." 

"It's not about that," Ostrit hisses. Jaskier groans out in pain as the fist in his hair tightens. Fuck, he's going to have a bald spot. "Kill me. Send me to Adda. But Foltest must suffer and pay for what he's done." 

"The striga suffers, too," Geralt growls. "If you love Adda so much, why let her daughter live in pain?" 

Ostrit snorts derisively. 

"That thing is not Adda's," Ostrit says. "It's all Foltest and his little magic trick. Adda's never wished for children. This thing should have been aborted before Adda even begun showing, but no, no, Foltest just had to tarnish Adda, to ruin her. She would not stand for him, wouldn't defend him if she was in her right mind!" 

"Would she stand for the countless deaths the striga you made and control is responsible for? For the suffering you're in the middle of?" Geralt asks. 

"Good thing she isn't here," Ostrit laughs. 

It is then Jaskier's fingers have found his dagger. He cuts the lutestring, but it stays on his thigh, held by the front of Jaskier's cloak. The binds on his hands fall away with just a few quick slices. And so maybe Jaskier ended up cutting his fingers and hands and palms, what of it? 

The binds drop to the floor. 

Jaskier drives the dagger into Ostrit's leg with surprising ease. The royal advisor screams, knife faltering at Jaskier's throat. Geralt moves, but so does Jaskier—he pushes his whole weight against Ostrit. They stumble backwards until they hit a cabinet and the shelves with the music box and the hurdy-gurdy. Jaskier pushes Ostrit's hand away from his throat, blindly stabs at the one which holds his hair. 

Ostrit screams again, releasing Jaskier. Jaskier pirouettes out of the way. Holding the dagger in a reverse-grip, he follows through the spin of his body and drives the wavy blade into Ostrit's neck. Ostrit gurgles and spits and bleeds, falling to the floor, hands clutching to his neck. 

Geralt reaches him. He swiftly and fluidly stabs the tip of the steel sword through Ostrit's head, a sickening crunch of splitting bone. The blade goes all the way through, emerging out of Ostrit's nose, stopping just before the rocky floor. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier. His knees tremble. Jaskier can barely feel them. He falters. 

Geralt's strong arms take hold of him. Jaskier's breath comes in quick, short bursts. His hands shake, his knees are weak, he can't think. He just fucking _stabbed_ someone in the _neck_. Even if Geralt hadn't killed Ostrit, he would have bled out. Quickly and painfully. 

Jaskier just fucking stabbed someone. He's both proud of himself for doing something, for saving himself and being useful, just a little bit, but at the same time, he's horrified. Who feels proud of murder? Although Ostrit would have had to die, anyways… 

Geralt lifts Jaskier, steps over Ostrit's body, and sits Jaskier on the cabinet. It creaks and bends to one side, but stays upright. Geralt's hands travel all over Jaskier, patting down every inch to check for injuries. He slowly takes Jaskier's dagger out of his hands, lays it on the cabinet, and examines Jaskier's bloody hands. 

"Fuck," he hisses. A candle lights in Jaskier's head. 

"Pant pocket," Jaskier bites out. "Healing potion in pant pocket." 

Geralt's hands slam down onto his thighs, searching for the pockets and the telltale bump. Eventually, they find the vial, and Geralt quickly and messily pours the contents onto the slices and the burn. Jaskier whines at the throbbing, tingling feeling of his skin growing and stitching itself back together. Not every cut healed, and his burn is still mostly unhealed and fragile and sore, but it's better than it had been. 

The vial was unfortunately small, and there is no more potion. 

"Fuck", Geralt hisses again. He rips off his black leather gloves and shoves them onto Jaskier's hands. Jaskier tries to be cooperative, he really is, but with the pain and the numbing tingling, he can barely move his fingers. 

"Fuck, indeed," echoes Jaskier. He leans his head against the shelves, accidentally bumping into the hurdy-gurdy. Jaskier closes his eyes. Breath in, count to three, breathe out. Breathe in, count to three, breathe out. 

"Any other injuries?" Geralt asks. 

"Tore my throat a bit, I think," Jaskier croaks with a shrug. "Kicked me in the stomach. Not too bad." 

Geralt's hands immediately find the spot and Jaskier flinches. He slaps Geralt's shoulder, forces himself to smile. 

"Oi now, be gentle." 

They look into each other's eyes for a second. The light of the moon filters in properly through the cracks and windows. 

Through it, Jaskier sees a dark, tall figure in the hallways, slowly creeping its way closer, swaying on its feet as though it was in pain. It was covered in black, rough, charred-looking flesh, with many ridges, valleys and mountain ranges. It was moist, glistening in the light. With tattered, stringy hair, invisible eyes, and a mouth open in silent agony. From its stomach swayed a bloody umbilical cord, bracketed by broken legs and stretched out, split feet. It finally catches sight of Ostrit. 

The striga's long claws clang against the floor as she beats it, letting out a hellish, deafening screech of wrath and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bc I was confusing myself while writing:  
> Basically, Foltest love-cursed Adda to take her from Ostrit, they have a kid. Ostrit then love-curses Adda a few weeks before the natural date of the birth, but the curses fight with each other and cause Adda to birth prematurely. The Chaos anchors itself to the child, mutating it and killing Adda. The child is buried with Adda in hopes that it is also dead. The child is the striga, starts killing people. Foltest doesn't want to kill his child. Ostrit wants the striga to turn people of Temeria against Foltest, and has only _a little bit_ of control over her, in that she won't attack/kill him, but he can't really direct her. The striga recognizes Ostrit's dead body and gets Really Fuckin' Mad.


	9. Betrayer Moon IV: til dawn she crept like a frightened girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first action scene I have _ever_ written! Watched some videos to help with it, but, well...I hope the softness between the boys in the tomb will make up for that --which, by the way, shoutout to NikkiTheStrange and yayati, who have guessed that was going to happen in the comments :D
> 
> Here's a link to the updated bingo card! https://maarchi.tumblr.com/otbu-bingo
> 
> Trigger Warnings: General injuries (cuts, slices, blunt force trauma), some body horror with the striga, with more descriptive body horror at the very end (burning/melting flesh, lots of blood and other bodily fluids, vomit mention, misshapen limbs/stomachs).
> 
> [Title from Solar Waltz by Cosmo Sheldrake]

Hands dig into the bones of Jaskier's hips and waist before he gets launched off of the cabinet. He lands softly on Ostrit's corpse, ribs croaking from the impact. Geralt pirouettes, casting what Jaskier thinks must be the strongest _Quen_ he's ever seen from the Witcher—which, by Geralt's own admission, is rather weak still. Weak enough that it means nothing to the striga. A single leap powered by the frog-like, broken legs is enough to shatter the magical shield and crash Geralt into the cabinet. Splinters hit Jaskier's face and neck. 

The striga pays no mind to Jaskier as he scrambles to his feet and runs at them. Statuettes fall off the shelves as the striga thrashes and throttles the Witcher, who's using both arms to hold her back. Geralt's sword is not in his hands. Jaskier's knees buckle under him right as his hand falls on the hurdy-gurdy. He grips it tightly by the neck and uses the momentum to pirouette and smash the instrument into the striga. 

More wood splinters fly. There's a resounding twang of the strings, but the striga's scream overshadows it. Jaskier sees but does not hear Geralt's pained groan, face scrunched tight and fangs bared in a snarl. 

Geralt can die, here. With Jaskier as a liability which he won't let die, and the striga foe strong enough to break through Geralt's Witcher tricks… Geralt can _die,_ here. 

The striga turns her attention to Jaskier. She bares her needle-like teeth and opens her mouth, and without thinking, Jaskier shoves what's left of the instrument's neck into it. Pushing, pushing, and _pushing_ as hard as he could, tripping the monstrous princess backward. She jumps away and throws her head around. Geralt tries to stand, but his breath and strength seem to have left him. 

Jaskier's blade was on the cabinet before the striga had arrived. Must be somewhere in its wreckage. 

There's a metallic, red gleam in the corner. 

Jaskier takes one of Geralt's gloves between his teeth and uses the hand to take out one of Triss' flashbangs, still in his cloak's pocket. The hurdy-gurdy's neck dislodges from the striga's mouth. She gnashes her teeth, stabbing into her own gums, red blood flowing like a waterfall from her mouth. Jaskier throws the messily wrapped packet. Soaked with his blood, the flashbang pulses with faint light before exploding—loud as thunder and bright like lightning. 

The striga and Geralt scream as one, blinded and deafened by it. 

Jaskier crawls fast over Geralt. His hands scream in pain as he pulls himself toward's Geralt's sword. The light of the flashbang fades and the striga thrashes behind him, loud in its wails, screeches, and the sound of its powerful talons gliding against stone and rock. 

His fingers touch the steel. 

Jaskier pulls and grips it, feels the handle in his grip and the familiar pommel. He turns onto his back, gets on his knees, and moves to Geralt, dragging the steel across the stone bricks. Geralt's face turns to him, eyes wild and unfocused, but he recognizes Jaskier's colors in the dark. He extends his hand, and Jaskier stretches to hand over the sword. 

The striga screams again, loud and powerful, like a newborn child tortured in a crumbling echo chamber. Jaskier's heart breaks, his ears hurt. The striga jumps. Jaskier can just barely feel its wetness and grime through his doublet and cloak when a faint light emanates from Geralt—a powerful immaterial blow, a wind, which sends the striga and Jaskier flying back. 

They crash into the bed. 

The bedposts and footboard break and splatter, and the mattress caves under them. The wooden planks which fashioned an eccentric design as a roof over the bed break and fall, burying Jaskier and the striga in various debris. Jaskier's bare hand drags against the striga's writhing rough skin. 

The Witcher casts another _Aard._ The striga takes the brunt of it, this time, as the blow presses her against the stone wall. The rocks shift precariously. Another _Aard_ hits the creature. 

Stones go flying outward, revealing a bright silver moon, a full ring encircling the monstrous princess. 

The striga wails and throws out her arms to find purchase on something, anything, but her legs fail her, and she falls, more stones ripped out of place. 

Jaskier shudders and shakes where he lays, gasping for hair. His whole body is pulsing and throbbing, wave of pain after wave of pain reverberating through him. There's dust in his eyes, nose, mouth, just like the powder, and he coughs. Coughs up spit and blood, and every inhale only fills his throat and lungs with more filth. 

Geralt kneels by the wrecked bed. He throws away plank after plank, bedpost beam after beam, until finally, Jaskier is unearthed, pale and filthy. Geralt pulls Jaskier out of the mess by his armpits, legs pathetically dragging behind. 

Geralt takes out one of his smallest waterskins, uncorks it, and places it on Jaskier's mouth. It takes a few tries before Jaskier manages to drink the water without coughing it back up. Geralt discards the waterskin to the side, letting Jaskier rest against what little is left of the bed's footboard. The Witcher grabs his steel sword. 

When Jaskier catches his breath and his throat isn't wholly made up of needles, Jaskier waves at Geralt to come closer, quick, tapping the ground beside him with urgency. Geralt leans in, listening. 

"Two curses," Jaskier mutters. His vision darkens, and his head falls forward before he catches it, shakes it, and steels himself to look Geralt straight in the eyes. The golden gaze keeps him focused, grounded. "There are two curses. Foltest cursed Adda because he was jealous of Ostrit's relationship with her. When Ostrit found out, he cast his own, just a few days before the birth." 

Geralt stops moving, still as a boulder. He takes a breath, realization sparkling in his eyes. 

"The curses mutated each other," he says. 

"That doesn't sound good," says Jaskier. Geralt's eyes stray to the hole he made in the wall. 

"There's no telling what'll cure her," says Geralt. His brows furrow and he snarls, just a bit, before he looks back at Jaskier and softens. 

Geralt leaves Jaskier to shuffle through the pile of wood that had once been a cabinet. Jaskier leans his head back. He takes a second to breathe. Everything hurts. He doesn't think anything's broken—thank _fuck_ —but he's covered in numerous slashes and cuts and bruises, and his bones feel soft, as if any touch could easily mold them into a different shape, breaking them. 

He doesn't notice himself slipping into unconsciousness until Geralt cradles his cheek in his hand and taps his fingers against Jaskier's temple. Jaskier struggles to stand, but Geralt swings one of Jaskier's arms over his shoulder, and while that hurts, it steadies Jaskier, and he takes steps with more confidence than before. Geralt presses Jaskier into his side. They shuffle forward as Geralt one-handedly unclasps a thin reserve belt from his waist. He passes it to Jaskier, who ties it around his hips, making a small triple loop at the side. Geralt slips Jaskier's new dagger into the makeshift holster. 

"What now?" Jaskier asks. Geralt leads them down the hallways, pace brisk, and Jaskier stumbles on every other step he takes. 

"We need to get to the crypt," says Geralt. "The only thing I'm sure of is that we need to keep the striga out of her tomb." 

Jaskier gulps and nods. 

They're slowly making their way down the stairs when a high-pitched growl resounds around them. Geralt drops Jaskier to the side, brandishing his sword and slicing across thin air—no, across the protruding chest ridge of the striga. The blade barely grazes it. 

The striga ounces on the Witcher with ease, pinning him to the ground. Her claws and talons rip into his shoulders and legs, and the Witcher slices at her back with the steel blade. Blood trickles down her sides, splatters across the walls with her wild movements, but the striga doesn't slow her assault. Doesn't notice. 

Jaskier pushes off the wall, slides across the stairs. He slips down and down, only barely going sideways, the staircase drenched in blood and other fluids. Jaskier flaps his hands around, slamming against the floor until he finally takes hold of the striga's soft umbilical cord. Jaskier bites down the desire to flinch and never touch that thing again—it's soft and warm and thin, like bunched up seaweed freshly pulled out of boiling water, and Jaskier can feel the striga's _heartbeat_ through it. It's disgustingly _thick,_ and it smelled like the corpses in Triss' lab. 

Still, he finds it, grabs it, and wraps it around his hands for better grip. Gravity pulls him further down, until he bounces to a stop, cord tightening around his hands. Then he leverages himself on it. Jaskier tugs his legs up, sitting on the stairs, and he plants the soles of his feet on a stair's side. 

Geralt, who is many times stronger than Jaskier, is having issues fighting the striga, so Jaskier has no delusions that he could pull her off. This is a game of pain. Jaskier tightens his grip on the cord and pushes away with his legs. His hands jerk and fly about, tugging and not tugging at the cord. 

The striga screams and screams and wails in time with the jerks. She thrashes around, shakes from side to side, legs and hands leaving Geralt's body. Suddenly, there's a loud scratch of talons against stone, and the striga's legs slip from under her. 

She falls. Both her and Jaskier start a tumbling descent down the stairs, the striga's disproportionally offset body propelling her even faster. 

There's another flash of magic, a faint light, and a force that makes Jaskier _fly_ the rest of the way down, landing at the foot of the staircase. The striga bore the brunt of the _Aard_ , spinning through the air before hitting the floor further down the hallway. 

Jaskier stays on the floor where he landed, winded. He gasps and heaves after air, but he can't seem to catch it—his throat is clogged with blood and spit and grit and dust, and it's so dry, and it aches. Everything aches. Pulsing, throbbing, each wave more overwhelming than the last, taking over everything in his mind. It doesn't help that he smells like sweat, copper, and rotten meat. 

Pebbles and bone shards hit Jaskier's back as Geralt slides down to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. 

Geralt lifts Jaskier with loud grunts and obvious exertion. Fuck. They will both die if it continues like this. Geralt shouldn't—can't—he can't just sacrifice himself to save people only for this to be his end. 

"Just go," says Jaskier. He tries to push away from the Witcher, but he's fragile and weak. "Go to the tomb and leave me here." 

The Witcher freezes for just a moment before he pulls Jaskier with new vigor. 

"What the fuck are you talking about, Jaskier?" the Witcher growls. 

"You'll die trying to protect both of us," Jaskier says. "She could wreck you even if you didn't worry about me. This isn't—" 

"Shut up, bard," says Geralt, and jabs his fingers into Jaskier's stomach. Jaskier whines at the sudden pain, no longer thinking or capable of forming words. Geralt brings them down a corner, entrance to it far too close to the writhing, groaning mess that was the striga. Geralt turns around. His fingers gather the blood on him, and he leaves Jaskier leaning against the wall while he quickly writes down an _Yrden_ in the entrance. With a quick flash of the activating sign, lavender light flashes in the arch of the merging hallways. Geralt brings out several flat rocks and puts them where the shield meets the floor. With each new rune reinforcing the magic, it grows thicker and less transparent, twinkling like stars. 

With three runes in place, Geralt grabs Jaskier and the two stumble their way in the direction of the crypt. 

They don't turn around when the striga's screeching whines return, nor when they hear the _Yrden_ struggle against her assault. It became more terrifying when the monstrous princess wisened up and left the _Yrden_ alone, opting to find a different route to them instead. 

Jaskier's strength eventually returns to him, just a bit. His knees are no longer made of mush. Jaskier and Geralt quicken their pace, alternating between light jogging and walking—which, admittedly, mostly involved Geralt dragging Jaskier. Fear and stress made them quiet. Even Jaskier felt more attuned to the sounds of the castle, looking out for any signs of the striga's presence. 

"What do we do if the cure conditions are different?" asks Jaskier. Geralt hums, thinking. Something hits a wall in the far distance. The two stop. Look around. The echoes die down, nothing else happens. Jaskier takes in a shuddering breath and they move on. 

"I don't know," says Geralt. "We'll follow through with our current plan. Go from there." 

Jaskier nods. Another staircase. They change positions, Geralt in front of Jaskier, Jaskier taking hold of the sconces on the walls, and a hand on Geralt's shoulder as they slowly descend. 

"Where's Triss?" Jaskier asks. 

"Going through Ostrit's files," says Geralt. "Meeting with the King." 

"Do you think he'll tell her?" Jaskier asks. "That he cursed Adda, too?" 

Geralt shrugs. Jaskier bites his bottom lip. At the bottom of the stairs, he takes out the xenovox in his breast pocket. The little box doesn't seem to be affected much by the fight, except for some loosened decorations. Jaskier takes off the lid. All of the wiring and cogs inside looked fine. Seeing this, Geralt bought out his own xenovox. 

It had a hole punched out of it, from the top of the lid and through the bottom. The striga's claws must have caught it. 

"Fuck," says Geralt, appropriately. Jaskier sucks in a breath through his teeth. He puts his xenovox back into his breast pocket and taps it for good luck. They move on, setting a brisk pace to the crypt. 

They find it eventually. Jaskier would assume they're only halfway through the night. Fuck. 

Geralt pulls Jaskier closer to himself, sword held tightly in front of him. Jaskier doesn't know if that means that the striga is here, but he takes hold of his dagger. They creep forward, through the chamber and past the pillars, getting ever so closer to the crypt. Geralt's hand fumbles at his waist. Then, something hard and cool touches Jaskier's hand, and he jumps. Geralt simply gives him a look. 

When Jaskier checks to see what it was, he sees what appears to be a set of brass knuckles in Geralt's hand—silver in color, fashioned with four growling wolven heads. Jaskier wordlessly takes it from Geralt and puts it on, belatedly noticing that Geralt has already put a set on himself. 

Jaskier gulps. 

It is also then that everything goes back to shit. 

The striga screams—above them, holding herself with her back to the arch of a pillar connecting to the ceiling, her umbilical cord swaying with her fluid movements. Her legs scramble to get behind rather than below her torso, readying for a leap. Geralt casts a _Quen_ on Jaskier, bathing him in orange-gold twinkling magic, and then shoves him out of the way right as the striga pushes off of the pillar. 

Geralt jumps away just in time—towards another pillar, one of the only ones which still had their sconces in place, and he takes out the elegant metal torch which sat in it. The striga runs at him, and instead of using his sword, he batters her face with the torch. There's crunch after crunch of breaking cartilage and bone. 

The striga wails and swipes her elongated arm, slapping Geralt across the face. The Witcher gasps, falling to his knees. Dark blood flows down his face. He loses the torch. Wrapping both hands on the hilt of the steel sword, he slashes at the striga's legs. It catches—which Jaskier is only able to tell by the striga's thunderous screech. That isn't enough to stop the striga, however. She tightens her hands into fists, claws stabbing into her own flesh, and she slams the Witcher into the ground across his back. She does it again, and again, and Jaskier can imagine the Witcher's ribs breaking at any moment. 

Jaskier grabs a rock off of the ground and throws it at the striga. It bounces off of the back of her neck, but reminds her of his presence. She immediately runs off to the side and circles back around a pillar. Jaskier's nails dig into the palm of his hands. The striga is close, so close, and Jaskier flattens himself into the side of a pillar. He brings out his dagger and pushes just the tip into the striga's flesh as she only barely misses him. The blade drags across the side of the striga's body, silver easily wounding the creature. 

The striga screams, falling to the floor and writhing in pain for just a moment. Then, Geralt is crowding Jaskier against the stone surface. They wordlessly and quickly exchange weapons, the digger secure in Geralt's grip. It's likely not big enough to be lethal, blade not much bigger than a pocketknife, which works well for their purposes. 

The striga picks herself up from the floor, screams, and leaps at Geralt. Geralt throws a punch, silver knuckles slamming into the striga's head. She howls, thrown back and staggering on the floor, only barely keeping herself on her feet. She advances again without much luck. Geralt slams his knuckled fist into her jaw, and a loud crack resonates through the chamber, echoing off the walls. The striga screeches and curls in on herself, tucking her mouth between her knees. She seemed to gasp for air, body shaking with pain. 

A tear rolled down Jaskier's face. He hates it. She sounds so—so hurt, stricken, _tortured._ Jaskier's heart stutters at the thought. Bile rises in his throat. 

Geralt then swivels and runs, grabs Jaskier by the sleeve and they book it to the tomb. 

Jaskier digs his hand into his cloak's pocket, finding the flashbang. He turns back as Geralt prepares the tomb, writing multiple _Yrden_ signs on the insides of the walls, the lid, the flat tops upon which the lid lays. The striga is curled in a ball still, trembling and holding her head. 

She looks so broken. So terrified and hurting. Jaskier almost forgets the terror of her teeth, the strange texture of the skin, and for just a second, he sees a suffering four-year-old girl, who even if she had been uncursed and wholly human, would not be properly able to understand what was going on. 

She's just a four-year-old girl. 

The striga quietens, trembles subsiding. She lifts her dark, misshapen head, and her vertical eyes glint in the moonlight. Shoulderblades protrude from the back of her body like butterfly wings waiting to burst out of their cocoon, and her broken legs and cut-apart feet widen their stance. She sways, backside lifted further up than her torso, fingers and claws twitching under her chin. Her arms and elbows are locked close to her body. Her mouth slowly reveals itself from behind her thin wrists. 

The left side of the jaw is hanging loosely, ripped out of its socket. Blood flows like a river from her mouth, her gums, where her teeth have cut into the flesh. 

Jaskier and the striga lock eyes. He's struck still. The striga brushes her wrist to her loose jaw, raising it. Jaskier can barely see something like black worms wriggle under her skin and gums and teeth, and with an audible pop, the jaw goes back into its socket. 

The striga pounces. Jaskier transfers the flashbang to his bloody hand, unprotected by Geralt's gloves. He throws it, and there's just enough blood on it to activate it—a far smaller explosion echoes through the chamber, with a light just a tad fainter, but it's enough to disorient the striga, who cries out and wails. 

She still wobbles towards Jaskier, quick and messy, and looking so _wrong_. Jaskier sucks in a breath, steels his nerves, and throws a punch with the silver knuckles. The striga screams and falls to the floor. Her hands cradle her head as she tucks her limbs closer to herself, laying sideways on the floor in a fetal position. 

Geralt, who had just finished preparing the tomb, grabs Jaskier by the cloak and throws him into the crypt. It smells foul, like a corpse— _obviously_ —but without the sickeningly sweet scent, nothing to mask the stench of death and swamps. Geralt gets in soon after Jaskier. He pulls the lid of the tomb over them. A simple hand gesture activates the _Yrden_ , and the signs glow lavender, lighting up the inside of the tomb. It doesn't silence the striga's screams, or her attempts to rip the cover off. 

Jaskier's body relaxes and he feels numb. Geralt places more runestones in the corners of the tomb. It makes the tendrils of magic that surround them visible, glowing softly. Geralt's legs and arms are spread to accommodate Jaskier's body under him. 

For a few seconds, the two simply breathe, exhaustion seeping into their bones as adrenaline makes its way out of their system. Geralt's eyes are slowly returning to normal, pupils making way for thin slivers of golden irises to shine through. 

Witcher potions are funny things. They are incredibly toxic, and even if they were to be diluted to the point a human wouldn't be able to taste them, they can still kill the person. If they're lucky. Geralt had confessed once that he refuses to give his potions to people not because they'll die—and if they consume undiluted potions, they certainly will—but because even if diluted, the potions could have significant life-altering consequences. Swallow, a healing Witcher potion, is fantastic at stopping internal bleeding. It can also, however, coagulate blood to the point where it becomes solid as a rock. 

Jaskier also knows that the potion which Geralt must have taken to make his eyes like that was Cat, to allow Geralt to see in the pitch dark. Cat expands pupils fully, eclipsing the iris. The rest of the black, which takes over the eye's sclera, is just hyper-concentrated Witcher blood, turned black with toxicity. Even Witchers have their limits. Eyes are some of the most fragile organs of a body. When reaching high toxicity, the many blood vessels in the Witcher's eyes burst, and flood them with darkness. 

It's not detrimental to the Witcher's vision, nor does it hurt much after the first bit of stinging. 

But Geralt's eyes _are_ hurting him right now. For a different reason; the light. 

Jaskier's hands slowly find their way to the Witcher's face. They cradle his cheeks, and Jaskier's thumbs tenderly close Geralt's eyes. Geralt, strong as he is even when exhausted, could have easily fought Jaskier off. Or told him to stop and fuck off, which Jaskier would actually listen to in these circumstances. But Geralt allows it, instead, even hanging his head a bit, so more of its weight would rest in Jaskier's hands. 

Jaskier runs his thumbs across Geralt's eyelids, brows, cheekbones. It spreads more blood on his face, but considering the striga's claw marks across his jaw, it doesn't make much of a difference. Jaskier makes sure his hands are as far from that wound as possible. 

"So," Jaskier says softly, "we just stay here until sunrise, then?" 

Geralt hums in confirmation. 

"How will we know it's time?" asks Jaskier. Geralt takes a few breaths before he answers. 

"The striga's screams," he says. "And the smell." 

"Of burning flesh?" 

Geralt nods in Jaskier's hands. 

" _Ugh_ ," Jaskier groans, tucking stray strands of Geralt's hair behind the Witcher's ear. 

The Witcher hisses. Jaskier quickly pulls back his hand, uses the other to turn the Witcher's head to look for the injury Jaskier aggravated. Besides the cuts on the jaw, there wasn't anything there. Jaskier does the same movement as before. Geralt flinches, and Jaskier pulls his hand back just barely quick enough to see Geralt's skin regenerate back to its usual pallor. 

That. That was a tiny burn. 

Geralt's face is scrunched, brows furrowed and eyes shut tight. He looks _guilty._ Jaskier quickly puts two and two together. He slides his gloved hand off of Geralt's face—fuck, Geralt suddenly has a very sad look to him—and continues gliding it along Geralt's puldrons, down his arm, and to his hand. The silver knuckles catch a bit on the glove. Jaskier lifts the hand, brings it between himself and Geralt, who refuses to turn his head back to look at Jaskier. 

Jaskier gently takes the knuckles off of Geralt. The skin there is—not rough or very damaged, without any blisters or the like, but it's darker and slightly raised. 

"Geralt," Jaskier says, just to make sure he's not misunderstanding everything, "are you...weak to silver?" 

_'Like a monster,'_ Jaskier doesn't say. 

And Geralt doesn't say no. 

_Oh._

Jaskier removes Geralt's knuckles from their hands, and hides them in his breast pockets, under several layers of cloth so Geralt wouldn't be able to touch those. He finds his dagger laying at his side, on top of Geralt's steel sword, and puts it into his holster, wrapping his cloak further around himself. Once all the silver besides Geralt's Witcher medallion is out of the way, Jaskier puts his hands back on Geralt's head. He cards the tips of his fingers through Geralt's hair, fingers softly scratching his scalp. 

"There," says Jaskier. "Now it's safer." 

Geralt turns to Jaskier. Jaskier's fingers smooth over his eyes, brows, and forehead, tucking more hairs back into some sense of propriety. 

"You should be scared," grumbles Geralt, low and soft, not having the admonishing effect he was probably going for. Jaskier smiles and the Witcher, rubbing up on his lids, a tell for the Witcher to open his eyes. Geralt does. 

"You talk to your horse and call her _Roachie_ when you think I can't hear you," says Jaskier, and Geralt grimaces, at which Jaskier grins. "You sew my clothes back together because I don't know how to and stab myself with the needle every time I try. You wear my decorated belts, though you're still too chicken to actually use the painted ones, despite your very obvious interest in them." 

At that, Geralt frowns. 

"How could I ever be scared of someone like that?" Jaskier smiles. He brings his and Geralt's foreheads together for a split second, before laying back down. He stretches his neck and shoulders a bit. "Although I do hope this is over soon, cause I'm getting very sore." 

Geralt snorts almost derisively. Jaskier gasps in mock offense. 

"What?" he says. "I'm not used to staying in such cramped places! At least I can freely get out of our tent if I ever need to stretch my legs." 

"It's not like I often get stuck in sarcophaguses myself," notes Geralt. 

"Could have fooled me!" Jaskier says. Then, he notices that Geralt's elbows are trembling minutely. Right. They both got messed up on their way here. Jaskier moves his hands to Geralt's shoulders, tugging him down a bit. "Gods, lay down, you oaf. You're barely standing…" 

"I'll crush you." 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. He might be fragile, but not _that_ fragile. This is a tender moment, however. If Jaskier so much as flinches, even if it was unrelated to Geralt, the Witcher will take it as a testament to his inhumanness and monstrosity. Jaskier shimmies to the side and starts getting on his side. 

"Then we lay on our sides, or with me on you," he says. "We still have _some_ options." 

Geralt doesn't say anything but hums and follows Jaskier's lead. Jaskier stops on his side, checking if Geralt does the same. Geralt instead continues moving, and they eventually find themselves with Jaskier on top of Geralt. Jaskier bends his knees a bit so he can place his head in Geralt's pauldron. They wordlessly stay like that for a while. 

"How long until sunrise?" Jaskier asks. 

"Maybe two hours," says Geralt. 

" _Ugh,_ " groans Jaskier. 

He pulls himself up on his elbows and stretches his legs. He takes Geralt's hair tie away and puts it by a rune stone. Then, he gets to work on braiding Geralt's hair. He sets a personal challenge of making the braids as thin as he can. Over time, as his fingers warm up and become familiar with the motion, he starts experimenting. Going thinner and thinner, changing styles of braids, and even attempting a plaited macramé, but gives up after the sixth try because Geralt's hair, as sticky with dirt as it was, refused to stay in place. 

Geralt, to his credit, takes to the treatment rather well. He closes his eyes and his breathing slows even more, hands loosely at Jaskier's hips. It gets to a point where Jaskier becomes concerned. When Jaskier pokes Geralt to check up on him, however, Geralt is just fine, simply meditating. The practice always helps the Witcher regenerate faster, which is very important at the moment. The sarcophagus didn't lend itself to drinking potions—Geralt is much more likely to just joke on them. 

So, they stay in the crypt for a long, long while. Fortunately, the little chips and holes in the stone of the tomb helped filter in some fresh air. That doesn't stop Jaskier from getting light-headed with breathlessness. Not a bad way to go, cuddling his Witcher. And even dramatic enough to be worthy of a ballad! 

Then the striga breaks its previous quiet—she had likely gone to feed on someone else—and thunderous screams shake the tomb itself. There's thrashing at the lid, dark shadows passing in front of the holes and indentations. The striga bangs and scratches at the cover. Jaskier can hear the stone sculpture of Adda shatter the more the striga rages. 

Geralt turns them around again, Jaskier on his back under Geralt. The Witcher gathers up his rune stones, using his feet to send the bottom ones into Jaskier's hands. They trade places again. Geralt turns off _Yrden_. 

The tomb's lid rattles violently. The Witcher casts a rune-reinforced Aard, launching the cover into the air. It spins once before it shatters against a pillar. The striga, who was on the cover and got caught between the two slabs of stone, screams bloody murder yet again. Her whole body convulses even in mid-air. Jaskier and Geralt jump out of the tomb. Geralt gets onto his feet while Jaskier sits to the side and marvels at the fresh air, even though it does smell like sweat, corpses, and rotten wood. 

Geralt takes off a chain from his waist, and it irritates his skin. Jaskier wants to do something to help, but there isn't much to be done sans returning Geralt's one glove to him—which Geralt refuses when Jaskier does offer it. 

The Wither swings a piece of the chain in a circle, preparing for the proper throw. The striga is unsteady on her legs as she stumbles towards them. She glistens with fresh blood, which Jaskier thinks might actually be _hers_. Her twitching body is smoking, and the stench of burnt meat hits Jaskier's nose like a hammer. She's much slower than before. No less wrathful. 

Geralt launches the chain at the striga when she gets close enough. Her screams grow louder. The skin that touches the chain begins to smoke harder, and the striga has weakened enough with the sunlight and their previous fight that she is unable to get out of the chain. 

The striga falls over, writhing on the floor, shaking and screaming. 

_She's a just four-year-old girl._

Geralt comes a bit closer to the striga, who doesn't appear to pay him any attention. Jaskier stands and follows after him, and he takes off one of his pauldrons, that got so damaged it swung willy-nilly. The Witcher examined the striga. She slowly grew quieter, but her cries still echoed throughout the chamber. 

"She's not being cured," says Geralt. 

"Fuck!" Jaskier curses. "What now? Any idea on how the curses might have mutated?" 

Geralt shakes his head. _Shit_ , fuck, Foltest will murder them. If they're lucky, Foltest will _murder_ them. He's more likely to make them his prisoners, to make them truly pay and for his own amusement. Maybe watch as they get tortured, boiled alive, burnt in a brazen bull. Put them to use as slaves of sorts, perhaps. Kings have done horrible things for less than this—for a simple disobedient look or wrong breath. 

Jaskier's mind scrambles for something to do, anything. 

"Let's—what if she needs to burn in the tomb?" asks Jaskier. "The remains of her mother, or something?" 

Geralt's eyes flash. 

"Certain cures need a connection to the cursecaster," he says. _And Adda's Foltest's sister_. The Witcher and Jaskier lock eyes before nodding. They quickly surround the wailing striga. She livens up when they get closer, growing louder and trembling harder, but despite the thrashing legs, Geralt and Jaskier are able to drag her misshapen body into the tomb. 

The sun shifts position, and its light falls directly onto the striga. 

Strangely, instead of growing louder, she becomes silent. Every wail, scream, and screech catch in her throat, and she stiffens. Her skin bubbles and boils in the sunlight, wriggling like snakes and worms. Then, blood flows from her every pore in earnest, bathing her in red and filling e sarcophagus. She shrinks, body caving in on itself. Her bones crack loud like thunder and there's loud hissing as various gasses leave her body through various cracks and holes in her skin. Her blistering skin breaks and strange green-brown, thick fluids spill out of it. It's—disgusting. 

Jaskier can't bear watching it for long. He stumbles away and vomits acid and blood and spit. It burns his throat. Tears fall from his eyes for a few minutes while he gathers himself. Breathe in, one two three, breathe out. Breathe in, one two three, breathe out. 

He slaps his hand on his thigh, cuts flaring to life and screaming in pain, and it grounds Jaskier. He walks back to the sarcophagus. Geralt is peeling and ripping off the striga's skin. It cracks like a shell and comes off with tendrils of thick fluid still connecting it to—something. Jaskier uses his gloved hand to help him out. It smells and feels gross, but Jaskier manages to hold himself together. 

When he goes to rub away more jelly-like flesh, his hand touches something solid. He gently presses about it, moving his hand, exploring. Jaskier is able to grab his hand around something thick, heavy, and sturdy, and he pulls it up. Geralt sees it and grabs it from the other side. 

From the mess of melted flesh, blood, pus, and whatever the fuck else came out of the striga's body, they raise the pale body of a human child. 

Her torso is dirty and slick, small, looking like it belongs to a kid anywhere between ages four to six, with a distended stomach. It's bulging and _full_ , and whilst Jaskier is distracted by the horror of the body and the veins so clearly visible under the pale skin, Geralt shoves his fingers into the delirious child's mouth. She retches. Chunks of meat fall out of her mouth, along with blood and little pieces of bone. Geralt holds his hand to his forehead. Her stomach slowly turns smaller and smaller, less stretched, less ready to burst. 

Jaskier looks at the rest of the body. Her limbs are longer than a four-year-old's should be, but they're also spindlier, with pronounced cartilage around all the knuckles and moving parts—shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees, ankles. Her fingers are also longer, each knuckle thinner than the last, and her hands seem stretched. 

Eventually, she empties her belly. Geralt takes her, cradling her disfigured form in his arms. The chain has fallen off of her during the transformation, but it left behind reddened marks on her stomach, chest, back, and arms. 

Geralt sits the girl down against a pillar. Jaskier crouches down to take a better look at her. Her face is just… so round. Exactly like a four-year-old's, just like her body, but with such mismatched and painfully elongated limbs. It's an unnerving sight. Instead of focusing on that, Jaskier tries to distract himself. He shakes off the exhaustion that begins to settle. 

"Is she truly unconscious?" Jaskier asks. 

"Yes. But she needs to be monitored closely, lest she drowns on her own spit or vomit," says Geralt. Jaskier nods. He pats himself down. Finding that he has nothing in his cloak, just breast pockets of his doublet, he takes off the heavy cloth and wraps it around her. It is day, but winter has begun, and it is cold still. Geralt lifts the striga, holding her gently, feet tucked in. 

Jaskier and the Witcher walk around the castle, gathering whatever they have lost or discarded in the fight. Jaskier is tasked with bearing both the silver chain and the steel sword, together with his dagger, seeing as Geralt is preoccupied with the girl. They find Geralt's waterskin and other glove right where they were left. Once everything was in place, the two walk outside. 

It must have snowed throughout the night because while there was some snow and frost when the squire walked Jaskier to Ostrit, it had not been so _white_. Jaskier's eyes sting and ache. Poor Geralt, with his Witchery cat-eyes and sensitive vision. 

"Put some snow in your mouth and melt it," says Geralt. Jaskier freezes. 

" _Huh?_ " he squawks unintelligently. 

"Your wounds are probably infected. You need to take Golden Oriole and Swallow, but they have to be diluted." 

Jaskier shrugs and does as the Witcher says. With both gloves on his hands, Jaskier gathers fresh snow from the ground and melts it in his mouth. It takes a while, and it goes numb very quickly, but eventually, he's leaning back with a mouthful of water, sitting on Geralt's previously-discarded pauldron they picked up on the way out. Geralt hands him the girl, brings out his potions. Some are cracked, but those they need have survived—likely because Geralt hides those in a small, padded pocket under his armor, since he saves those until _after_ a fight is done. The Witcher is very careful to let only half a drop fall into Jaskier's mouth. 

Once Jaskier has had the faintest bit of both potions, Geralt downs them both, and he whistles, calling for Roach. 

The beautiful, majestic horse arrives, disregarding all the laws of the universe and the fact she's been tied to a pole in Triss' makeshift stables. She's in full tack and with their possessions strapped to her. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief when she comes to a stop by then. Geralt goes to greet her, nuzzling into her snout and neck. 

"Oh, Roach!" Jaskier beams. "Wonderful little girl, I would love to hug you right now but my hands are full and knees weak." 

As if she understood, Roach comes over to him and leans her head down to bump her snout against his forehead in greeting. Jaskier puts a hand on her jaw and neck and rubs his nose against hers in a mockery of a butterfly kiss. 

Pfft. _'As if'',_ he thought. Of course she understands! Roach is a miracle and a gift and deserves the best apples and carrots. 

Geralt comes over and lifts Jaskier to his feet. He takes the girl from his arms and shoves him up the saddle. Jaskier takes the girl back from Geralt, situating her at the front so they both could keep her from slipping. 

Something white falls in front of Jaskier's eyes and settles in the girl's stringy, colorless hair. Jaskier looks to the sky. It's pale white with the rising sun, and the clouds are bathed in colors of flame. 

"It's snowing!" Jaskier yells happily. He sticks out his tongue to catch a snowflake. One lands in his mouth quick and easy, and he coughs and coughs, and his heart pounds hard again, exhaustion wiped away in a second. "That's— _ash_?" 

Jaskier's eyes dart back to the sky and look around, and he gasps. 

"Look," he says, bewildered. Dark smoke rises in violent, frenzied clouds, painting the sky above in gray. It rises from behind Old Vizima, from the direction of New Vizima's castle. 

Jaskier and Geralt turn to each other, meet each other's cautious, concerned gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's any confusion about the Signs/magic that Geralt does, since it's not explored in the Netflix show:  
> Witchers have simple but effective magical spells called Signs which have varied uses, but are typically reserved for battle. Igni to make fire, Axii for mind control, Somne to induce unconsciousness/sleep, Quen as a personal magical shield, and Yrden has a quite broad range. It can be used to trap opponents or stop them from entering/leaving a room, while also being useful when fighting incorporeal monsters such as wraiths, as Yrden turns them corporeal and weak to physical blows.
> 
> Runestones are, as far as I'm aware, purely a game mechanic, but they're nice, so they're included. Basically, magical stones can be created, charged with Chaos (in otbu-Canon at least), and then used to reinforce and magnify Signs. It is most commonly used for Yrden.
> 
> I thought it'd be fun to make Geralt bad at Signs despite having a Witch for a mother. Extra mutations ain't always useful, yanno?


	10. Betrayer Moon V: out of the pan, where to the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! I hope to get two more chapters out at the very least before my second exams on the 9th, but I make no promises and I am terrified :D  
> And my apologies for the long wait! This chapter fought with me a lot >:\ but it exists now
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Eye injury mention/mild description at the very end. Dissociation, Ithink? Or something of that sort.
> 
> Bingo card to be viewed here: https://maarchi.tumblr.com/otbu-bingo. Send in prediction submissions either here in the comments or in the asks on tumblr! if you go Anon, pleaaaase include your AO3 name so I can give you credit for a proper guess!

Jaskier drops Roach's reins and Geralt is quick to catch them. Jaskier pulls Triss' xenovox from his doublet, smears blood on the entire glass. After a short while, Triss answers. It is not her voice, however, that comes through first. First come screams and yells, crackling embers, wood and brick falling apart, and stones rolling against stones under people's feet. 

"Geralt! Jaskier!" comes Triss' voice, at last, in a whisper-yell. 

"Triss, what's going on?" Jaskier asks urgently, looking into the bloodied glass of the xenovox. He knows, logically, he cannot use it to see Triss or where she is, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Geralt starts to pull at the reins, leading Roach towards Old Vizima's back entrance from which they had emerged only minutes ago. Roach goes reluctantly, but she goes. The pace is slow, mindful of the girl resting against Jaskiers arm and chest. 

"The miners!" comes through the xenovox. There is a faint crack in the air. Jaskier rips his eyes away from the box, and he looks to the quickly-darkening skies. A thick ball of smoke rises, blacker than before. Something heavy falls in the distance and, if the xenovox is to be trusted, splashes into the waters of Vizima's lake. Triss breathes heavy and quick, and Jaskier realizes she's probably running. "The miners had set fire to the mines, and all of Vizima is in flames. The King and most of the council are gone. How's—did you do it? Did you cure the striga?" 

"Yes, she's—not quite normal, but she's not cursed anymore." 

Jaskier gets the distinct feeling Triss has nodded at that. Roach finally steps into the old ruins, and they are shrouded in darkness. 

"The southwest woods, where we first met—go there. I'll catch up to you," Triss commands. The xenovox sputters as something explodes on the other end, rocks shattering. "It's a massacre here." 

"Triss, Triss, what's happening?" Jaskier asks. He tightens his hold on the princess resting on him. "This can't be from just the mines, can it?" 

"The mines ran underneath the entire castle," says Triss. There's a whistle and a clunk of an arrow embedding itself between bricks. "They exploded when the miners lit them, the ground has collapsed and so is everything else." 

Deep rumbling emanates from the xenovox. Triss curses, and then a glass bottle breaks, and there is a _woosh_ of flames flaring to life, hungrier than before. 

"It's not just the miners," Triss says, eventually, and she sounds in pain and out of breath. She must have thrown a potion. The echoing _click-clack_ of Roach's hooves against the stone floor of the old castle is not enough to drown out the relentless white noise of the xenovox. "The entire peasantry has turned against the king! They're all here, jamming the entrance." 

"Can't the knights just overpower them?" asks Jaskier. Geralt shakes his head. 

"They're wearing metal armor," he says, quiet enough not to echo in the empty halls, but loud enough that Triss hears and hums. 

Jaskier doesn't particularly want to know what that is like, although he can imagine it's not far removed from the torture of the brazen bull. Gleaming red plate, gloved and mail, sticking to skin and ripping off layer after layer, burns cuttning through flesh and to the bone, skin red and blistered and covered with boils… How long before the metal melts and becomes one with the skin and flesh? 

At the very least, Jaskier hopes the guards can take off their helmets. 

"Triss, are you okay?" Jaskier eventually asks. There's still whizzing and wooshing coming from the xenovox, an occasional scream ringing against the walls. 

"Yes, yes," she says hurriedly. "But I need to focus—we'll meet in the woods, on the road, alright?" 

Jaskier hums and wishes her good luck before the connection cuts out. Jaskier transfers the xenovox to his other hand, grabs his cloak, and cleans as much of the filth and brown blood away. Deeming it clean enough after a few minutes of scrubbing, he puts it back in his doublet. Geralt keeps their pace slow and controlled. 

There's a silence for a while. 

"I did say it's a stupid tactic to condemn you publicly and then hire you in secret," says Jaskier, thinking back to when they first met Triss. Geralt sighs deeply. Jaskier is relieved to hear it's more tired than annoyed. 

"Worked out for them before," Geralt points out. 

"Times are changing," says Jaskier. "History will repeat itself but it is not static." 

Jaskier thinks of saying that the miners overreacted. He would like to say they did. But did they, really? Jaskier can't honestly agree with that. They were preyed upon by Foltest's own daughter for four years, and many dozens have died just in the first year. Something still leaves a rotten taste in his mouth. 

"Ostrit got his revenge at last, huh?" he notes. He hugs the girl in his arm closer, running his thumb over her shoulder. She's gaunt, but clearly had eaten well, going by her bloated stomach from earlier, and when she kept on vomiting blood, guts and bone. Those could have ripped up her throat actually, which, _fuck._ But Geralt knows to check for such things, so he would have done something about it if it need be. Jaskier grips the pommel of the saddle and takes a peek at the girl. 

There isn't much to see besides her matted hair and dirty face, spidery limbs hidden in the cloak wrapped tightly around her. If Jaskier hadn't been used to the sight of white hair full of dust, blood, and mud, he wouldn't have recognized the girl's hair as snowy—for, at the moment, it is gray and greasy and wet. 

He hopes they'll be able to wash her soon. She deserves to be clean after so many years spent surrounded by filth and corpses of her own making. Hell, she could even pass for Geralt's daughter, with her hair so white. 

Witchers _are_ sterile, though. Still, it's a nice fantasy. Geralt would make for a good father, though perhaps gruff and a little overly awkward about it. Jaskier would make up for that. 

But the Path is no place for a child. Especially so young. Jaskier isn't even sure if he'd be okay with leaving the girl in Triss' care. As nice as the Witch is, she is still a _Witch._ A sorceress, a mage, working under the constraint sof the Brotherhood, which is an organization as known for spitting out exemplary mages as it is for scheming, backstabbing, and covering for many a terrible magical experiment gone wrong. Jaskier can't, in good conscience, leave the girl in the hands of such folk. They'd put her through hell, trying to figure out why she is as she is, how the curses affected each other. 

This child doesn't know anything about the world. She had always been a striga—a wild animal, really. 

Jaskier grits his teeth. He adjusts the cloak around the girl's body and puts the hood over her head. His hands tingle, and he wipes them softly against the bundled cloak. 

Though he wears a doublet and pants, Jaskier slowly starts to shiver from the cold. 

What to do with the child? 

She is a young, wild animal at the moment. Rehabilitating her would take a long, long time. Perhaps they could take her to a temple of Melitele? The closest is in Vizima itself. Is it safe? The King has perished, as did the council. Jaskier doesn't know what will happen to Vizima, to Temeria. What parties will fight for political power? Who will win? How _long_ until someone does win? 

Jaskier doesn't know where the closest other temple of Melitele might be. He knows there is one in Lyria, but that is to the east, and it will take them over a week to get there. Not only that, Lyria is, for lack of a better word, _loose_ morally. Geralt doesn't get as much shit for being Rivian as he does for being a Witcher, but his Rivian accent often had people brandishing their anger and blades just as quickly. Cidaris is their best choice, as it is southwest and only two days away—though it can quickly grow to be three or four, what with Triss likely assisting them, and with the child being an unknown variable. Furthermore, Cidaris is famously known for obsessively worshipping _Sedna._ Melitele isn't a big figurehead in their lives, unlike Sedna, goddess of the seas and its bounty and its demons. It makes sense, considering Cidaris is a coastal land of fishermen. This also means they have no temples or monasteries. 

If not off to a temple of Melitele, then where? They don't have many options at the moment, and Redania in the north is absolutely out of the picture. Vizimir II of Redania, current king and greedy bastard, has been setting his sights on a Temerian alliance for years. Foltest had refused any and all attempted treaties, as far as Jaskier knows, and their relationship has grown antagonistic these past years. 

By the gods, Redania is going to conquer Temeria as soon as news of Foltest's death break out. 

But that's off-topic. If not off to a temple of Melitele, then where? Where would this cursed child be safe, where could she rehabilitate and become a functioning member of society, where would she hurt least? 

_'She had once said she wished to be a dryad of Brokilon.'_

It's what Ostrit had said about Adda. The dryads of Brokilon, a terrifying race of magical women, who can be born or who can be created by taking girls of other races. No one knows quite how that happens, how it works, but it's not as if many go to Brokilon and then live to tell the tale. It's a long shot. But dryads are known for healing, too. Known for archery and destruction and arcane magics not even mages can replicate, and still, they are famed as great healers. 

Sending the girl to Brokilon is dangerous on multiple levels, and it's not like she'll stay a human for long. The dryads are hostile and more likely to murder Jaskier, Geralt, and Triss than to hear them out. Hell, the magic of Brokilon is likely too much for 

Triss to tolerate, so she wouldn't be able to go near. Assuming she does travel with Jaskier and Geralt so far. Witchers have been sent to Brokilon a few times, Jaskier knows, paid by humans to kill the dryads so the magic and Chaos and resources of Brokilon could be harnessed. Geralt might be seen as a danger. 

If they'll let anyone in, it'd be Jaskier, but he wouldn't survive the woods long. Dryads don't like humans much. All women they meet are either killed or turned into dryads, while all men are either used to sire dryads, or killed, or both. Jaskier will happily get in on that, although he doesn't particularly care nor want to be involved in dryad-production. 

By main roads, Dorian is barely half a day's ride away. Jaskier and Geralt had traveled by the woods for a good portion of the trip to circumvent the defenses of Vizima, prolonging the trip, and the winter times have brought darkness quicker. If they travel efficiently, they might reach Brokilon within the day, albeit more realistically they would get there in the middle of the night if they don't bunk down first. 

Though the girl could cause some troubles. At worst, two days to Brokilon. Given they don't also take winding forest paths, as Geralt had elected two days ago. 

When they step out of the castle and onto the bridge leading to the mainland, Jaskier first notices the three corpses clad in armor—or, rather, what was left of the corpses. They looked like a pig's leftovers, strewn all about the bridge and frosted over, snow not doing the best job at hiding them. At the very least, there are no bones to be seen. Then Jaskier sees the burning castle. 

Its small towers and intimidating walls are now little but crumbling ruins, black silhouettes in the golden flames. Jaskier doesn't feel much looking at it, and he wonders why. There's a pinch in his heart, knowing what the death of Foltest and the royal council means, knowing that many have died, but there's no more in him than that, and it feels like it's not enough. 

Geralt doesn't even glance in New Vizima's direction, eyes trained on the road, and steadily leads Roach down the bridge and towards the woods. Jaskier keeps looking at the castle and the flames until Geralt leads them into the woods. 

Slowly, they make their way to the forest road where Ostrit's soldiers escorted them. 

The smell of burning flesh hits Jaskier's nose. But there is no fire around, and he is nowhere near New Vizima. He shouldn't be smelling it. Jaskier grimaces and closes his eyes and hugs the girl in his arms closer. 

A ways down the road, after a long silence that sits heavy on Jaskier's shoulders, he decides to speak. 

"We should name her," he says, though it isn't the topic he _truly_ wants to discuss. 

"What for?" asks Geralt. Jaskier looks at him. Those claw marks on his face haven't healed much, though the bleeding has pretty much stopped. Still, it probably hurts to move his jaw. 

"Just a nice thing to do, I guess," says Jaskier. "Plus, I don't want to call her 'the girl' or 'the child' in my head all the time. What about Alena?" 

Geralt grunts, lip curling into a grimace. Jaskier rolls his eyes, then thinks out loud some more. 

"Basta, Hestia? Justyna? Avril, Bia, Ellora, Casya, Khrystyna, Anina, Jola? Iola? Wiola? Oh, come on Geralt, work with me here," Jaskier mutters. He hums very loudly, thinking about whatever names he could use for the girl. Maybe something poetic, so he could use it in the ballad he will write? Or maybe something that would fit dryadic naming conventions, something more Elder, more elven? Or maybe he should honor the girl's Temerian heritage. After all, it's not like she'll have the name for long. The dryads will rename her, in all likelihood. 

Though, really, if her name is temporary, then he can name her whatever he wants. Which unfortunately _still_ means taking the name origins and language into consideration. And what if he comes up with a name the dryads won't take away? _Ooh,_ that'd be very nice... 

"Rhonwen," he tries the name on his tongue and nods to himself. Jaskier glances down at the newly-named Rhonwen. Her face is round and pudgy still, covered in many layers of grime and dirt. Her hairline fades into her complexion seamlessly, making her forehead appear particularly big. It's ridiculous and very endearing. 

"Why that name?" Geralt asks, confused. Jaskier shrugs, then notices Geralt is in front of him, leading Roach gently by the reins, so Jaskier hums. 

"I have my reasons." 

Which he will not explain, for a multitude of reasons and excuses. Mostly because Geralt, who had picked his own name, likely knows its origin, and if he figures out Rhonwen's, then, well that's just embarrassing. 

Actually, speaking of names and their origins... 

"If you don't like it, why don't you figure one out?" Jaskier muses, pointedly looking at the back of Geralt's head. The slight rise of Geralt's shoulders tells Jaskier that the Witcher can feel his stare, and he grins. "You should be familiar with such rituals, being a Witcher and all." 

Geralt turns to glare at Jaskier, never slowing down. Jaskier wiggles his brows. The Witcher snarls and turns back to the road. 

"What inspired you to pick Geralt as a name, anyway?" Jaskier wonders. 

"I didn't." 

Jaskier's eyebrows almost reach his forehead. Even Roach bunts her head into Geralt's shoulder to ask for more. After a silent moment, Jaskier prods, "And? Geralt, this flies in the face of everything I know about you. Thought you picked it all on your own, pouring over lists of Witcher-approved names, or simply throwing darts blind at a scroll of the alphabet, letting Destiny decide." 

"That was where Rivia comes from," Geralt mutters. Jaskier thinks he wasn't supposed to hear that, but he does, and he gasps. 

"You did throw darts!" he squeals. "How cute!" 

Jaskier imagines a chubby-faced, young Geralt, hair already white and eyes amber, wearing simple shirts and pants, tongue peeking out between his lips, dart in hand. He would close his eyes, or put a hand over them, or hell, maybe even go wild and get a blindfold, and he'd spin, and then throw, and with no enthusiasm whatsoever, add 'of Rivia' to his name. Written on a tiny scrap of paper. Attached to his shirt, proud of his most insignificant Witcher initiation. Most insignificant, but also the most important. 

"Vesemir picked my name," Geralt continues, a little wary. Jaskier hugs Rhonwen closer to himself in excitement. 

"That mentor of yours? Old Witcher of the keep?" Jaskier leaned forward, causing Roach to speed up by accident. He leans back, and Roach admonishes him with a surly _neigh._ Jaskier claps her neck apologetically. 

"Yes." 

"But you picked Rivia on your own, with the darts." 

"Yes." 

"Was that the first name you got?" 

There's a very telling tightness in Geralt's shoulders. 

" _Oh—hoho!_ " Jaskier's eyes sparkle in interest. "Do tell!" 

"No." 

"Please." 

"No." 

"If you tell me, you'll get to pick Rhonwen's name!" 

"You already decided it." Geralt's head moves in a way Jaskier recognizes as an eye roll. "Won't be able to change it even if you swear on your lute." 

"I would never swear on the lute, you brute," rhymes Jaskier. He thinks for a second. "Actually, I will! I shall not touch the lute under any circumstance for as long as we keep Rhonwen, if you tell me what you first called yourself." 

The bargain isn't particularly balanced or worthy, but it's not like Geralt will actually⸺ 

"Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde," says Geralt, immediately. 

Jaskier guffaws, disbelieving for two reasons. He ignores both. 

"Melitele's tits, thank fuck someone prevented that!" Jaskier chortles. "Nobles would have you hung for that!" 

Geralt looks at Jaskier, brows furrowed and lips curled to bare his fangs in confusion. Jaskier shakes his head, leaning back to look for his notebook in the saddlebags. He simply _must_ write it down. Write it down and memorize it and never forget it. 'Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde', holy _fuck!_

"Dearest Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde," says Jaskier in a normal voice, then deepens it, and remembers dramatizations of older plays from the days of Oxenfurt, as dictated by the theatrics professor. "By the law of propriety of ranks and order of birth, shalt no peasant may beareth two names, nor shalt a gentle above Sir beareth more than three, nor shalt the royal blood has't aught less than four, for names art sacred and denote thy worth." 

The corners of Geralt's mouth twitch, even as he looks confused. 

"To breaketh a single such ruleth is to beest worthy of twenty lashes with a knout, or to beest a slave to a gentle for a year, or to beareth the noose, shouldst the peasant refuseth to beareth the nameth of one. Shouldst a gentle above Sir beareth a nameth of four or more, those gents shalt beest stripped of their inheritance and title, and beest thrown to the dogs of the woods. A royal lesser nameth beest worthy of all ridicule." 

Geralt shakes his head and looks away, but Jaskier does not miss the amusement with which the Witcher glows. 

"But seeth thee this, dearest Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde, it is not where the law ends!" Jaskier strikes his hand out, motioning to Geralt, as though he was a particularly captive audience. "For thee seeth, a peasant may not beareth silk nor velvet nor gold, nor may their forms beareth jewels nor pearls, and neither can the peasant weareth metal on their headeth, nor may they beareth slashes on their sleeves." 

"There is no way this is real," sighs Geralt. Jaskier is about to defend himself, for he knows all that to be true, having learned this law as a young noble himself. Before he can do that, however, a voice comes from the woods. 

"Unfortunately, it is very much true," says the voice, and a bloodied, hoodied form comes out of the woods. Triss, in her bedazzled blue cape and dress, with a mantle of fur, and wild hair. "Though I do wonder how you've come to speak of such a topic." 

"Irrelevant," says Geralt, in a voice that brokes no argument. Not that Jaskier would tell the truth, himself—Geralt's embarrassing name is _Jaskier's_ treasure. 

Jaskier waves his hand, putting the topic behind them. He redirects Triss' tired eyes to Rhonwen, angling her so her pudgy, dirty face shows through the shadows cast by the hood. 

Triss' breath hitches. Geralt and Roach stop, and Triss quickly walks to Jaskier's side. He hands Rhonwen to Triss, fairly sure the Witch is unable to teleport and thieve the child. With his hands free, he jumps off of the saddle to stand on the same side as Triss, and he ruffles through the saddlebags thoroughly. He eventually finds his journal, but hells only know where his pencils and coal are. He picks up a roadside rock as Triss fawns over Rhonwen, and quickly scribbles in Geralt's pompous name. 

Then, Triss gasps sharply. Jaskier's head snaps to her, and _oh,_ she's discovered Rhonwen's gnarled limbs. 

Jaskier elects to ignore this in its entirety, and puts his notebook back into the saddlebags, and puts a hand on Triss' shoulder, standing pressed side-by-side with her. 

"We named her Rhonwen," he says. 

" _You_ named her," Geralt growls. 

"Alright then, I take full credit for that!" Jaskier puffs up proudly, pursing his lip at Geralt. The motion makes him suddenly very, very aware that he is very tired, and spent half the night in a tomb, and didn't sleep very much—even if he does count the time he's been unconscious. 

Jaskier looks back to Triss. She's not smiling, but her expression is soft and gentle, and she looks at Rhonwen in awe. Her almost-clean hands wipe away some of the grime on the girl's face, rubbing the same spot delicately over and over until a pale, pink-beige complexion stands out among the dark dirt. 

"It fits her," Triss says eventually. Then she turns somber. "What to do with her?" 

Everyone quietens. Even the forest, it seems, has lost its voice. 

"I thought we could take her to Brokilon," Jaskier says eventually, his hands uneasily placed at his hips, thumbs circling on his sides. The Withcer and the Witch look to him. "The way they turn girls into dryads—it wipes memories if I heard the right rumors. Letting her forget her years as a striga, when she was suffering...I think that might be kind. The dryads should know how to take care of her, how to heal her." 

Triss averts her eyes, looking neither at Jaskier nor Rhonwen, and blank gaze pointed at the ground. Jaskier meets Geralt's stare, unsure and tired. The Witcher nods, slowly. 

"It's the closest alternative we got," says Geralt, adding onto Jaskier's reasoning. "I can keep Rhonwen asleep with _Somne._ " 

"How about keeping her calm with _Axii_ instead? Make her think we're friendly?" asks Jaskier. Something about keeping Rhonwen asleep for such a long while strikes him as wrong. That, and, well, he wants to meet her. It won't be a proper meeting, with her mind glazed over by the fog of _Axii,_ but... 

Geralt shrugs. "I don't know if it's strong enough for that," he admits. 

"Just try," says Jaskier. "We'll be fucked anyway if she is immune to magic." 

Geralt concedes the point. 

"I saved some elixirs from my hut," Triss says. She looks to Geralt. "One of them's a sleeping draught. If your Chaos won't work on her, maybe mine will." 

Geralt shrugs again. Jaskier sways on his feet, catching himself only at the last moment. Triss grabs onto his doublet uselessly, but Jaskier appreciates the thought. 

"Well, we know who won't be needing that one," Jaskier notes faux-casually. He dusts himself off, only rubbing more dried blood onto his doublet. "How about we get going? And make camp soon." 

Geralt nods, then motions with his head to Roach. Jaskier narrows his eyes. 

"Nuh-uh, mister," he quips and jabs his hand between the two of them. "I might have gotten thrown around, but I quite vividly remember the striga's claws ripping you apart. Plus, I can see your face. Looking like death warmed over more than usual." 

_'And your legs, Geralt,'_ Jaskier doesn't say. For Jaskier, depending on how much numbing cream he uses, his wounds can stay numb from a few hours to a whole day. They are coming to life, now. Geralt doesn't get much reprieve from the pain on their day to day, only allowing the vulnerability and time necessary for such ministrations when inside secured rooms at inns and abandoned places, and it's not like they had _time_ to put a fresh layer onto Geralt at Triss' hut. By the gods, Geralt's legs must be even worse than normal, considering they got shredded, and he's taken so many potions, _and_ the little break they took in the tomb can't be described as relaxing even by the most general of terms. 

"Both of you look dead on your feet," says Triss. Which, well, she isn't wrong, although most of the blood Jaskier's covered in is Geralt's or the striga's, and, well, the little bit of his comes from his hands, which weren't the biggest to begin with and got dealt with early. Triss, on the other hand, doesn't look all that tired nor injured—the blood on her clothes likely not even hers. "How about you two share the horse and I lead?" 

Jaskier gasps in sheer outrage. The—the gall! The daring! Triss must have balls of fucking steel, because not even Jaskier would have dared think such a thought in the early days of his companionship with Geralt, as much as he wishes for death. Hell, Jaskier doesn't dare think such a thought now anymore, either, though less because he is too stupid to conceive of such an option, and more because Geralt has turned out to be a very pacifistic man who just so happens to be very sensitive about his beloved horse. The one time Jaskier had attempted such a blatant disregard for the Geralt-and-Roach leadership dynamics, Geralt refused to speak a word to him for three days! 

And, well, while a logical idea, both because Jaskier is about to fall asleep while standing, and Geralt should go easy on his legs, there is no way Geralt will let Triss do anything of such a nature. After all, Triss is a fresh face, and she did betray a Witcher before, though it _had_ been post-mortem. If Jaskier gets some water and food with him—they have dried jerky somewhere, and there's plenty of snow—then he could be the lead. It's just following the main road, after all, until they find a good camping spot. Besides, Geralt had been letting him up on Roach more and more lately, which obviously means _something,_ some privileges must be present here. 

"How about⸺" 

"—We'll make camp in the Magpie Forest, where the Ismena flows through," Geralt cuts in, throwing Jaskier off balance. He walks around Roach's front, giving it a soft rub, and holds the reins towards Triss. Triss nods, taking the reins from Geralt and holding them in a sure grip. 

This, technically, means nothing. It's a simple, logical decision. 

But it _hurts._

Jaskier's heart plummets and sinks down, souring in the acid of his stomach, and something seethes in his lungs, pulls his ribs inward. But there is no blood or gore or cracking bone. Jaskier feels far away, suddenly. Like in the castle, when they headed to the crypt for the first time. 

He knows, rationally, it is _him_ who climbs up on Roach without a complaint, it is _him_ who takes Rhonwen from Triss, and shuffles forward to make space for Geralt. Rationally, he is aware of the fact that Geralt's arms snake their way around _Jaskier_ , one at his waist and the other at the pommel of the saddle. 

But Jaskier doesn't feel _there_. It doesn't feel like him. It doesn't feel like anything. There are thoughts in this body, this weak, thin, frail body of scars, and they are not kind, but they are not Jaskier's; they are thrown at Jaskier, they drown Jaskier, who cannot escape and who cannot run away, because he is _stuck_ in not-his body, which he knows rationally is _his,_ but towards which he feels no connection to. Everything is happening, and Jaskier can't do anything. He has no control, not over his breath nor his thoughts nor his body, and nothing feels like his to control, either. 

He's not sure if there is a silence or if there is a storm around him—he hears _both._

Jaskier suddenly sees Rhonwen, and a bloodied hand connected to an arm clad in a dirty blue sleeve. Patterned. It's his. Rationally, logically, it is _his_. But it isn't. It's alien and it's wrong, and not even Rhonwen's dainty, pudgy face inspires feeling within him. Gone is what he remembers to be fondness. Perhaps some sense of fraternal affection. There's a thrumming void replacing whatever that feeling had been, and he only has the vaguest memory to go off of. 

Would he mind if he threw Rhonwen off of Roach, into the woods? Would he feel anything as Triss and Geralt screamed at him? 

He imagines it. Doesn't feel a thing. 

Would it even happen? Would this body listen to Jaskier? 

It does, sometimes. What does that feel? Jaskier isn't sure. The sights he sees shift and come and go, and he doesn't know much about them. Are they real? They should be. They had been real before, hadn't they? He remembers, he thinks. The realness. Maybe that was fake, too, though. He can't be sure—he can't know, doesn't know, what does he know anyway, he's not even allowed to fucking lead Roach, but Triss might be leading Roach—if such concepts as Triss and Roach and lead exist. 

If they did, why would Triss be leading Roach, and not Jaskier? 

It would be logical, yes, for Triss might be less injured, less tired, might be more aware and awake than Jaskier, if such a reality as this was real. Jaskier would have had one hell of a night. So would have Geralt. It would be tired, after a night like that, would it not? 

But Jaskier wouldn't be in _too_ bad a condition. He can't imagine what condition, though. Can't imagine _himself_ at all. What does he look like? What _would_ he look like, if his body was real? Blonde, brunette? Short-haired, or with long curls? Would he have hair at all? 

He'd like to have hair. He'd like to brush it. He would have hands, he thinks. They would be grisly and stained. 

Jaskier doesn't care. He wants to think about something else. He wants to be _able_ to think about something else, without the thoughts of this fragile body's mind drowning out his own. 

"Nice braids, by the way," says—Triss? Triss is leading Roach. Roach follows Triss' lead by the reins. 

There is a very cruel, possessive thought that circles in this body's mind, and it is a dreadful thought, and if Jaskier had a chest, it would be burning. 

Geralt grumbles and grunts, because that is what a Geralt would do. It is...Jaskier doesn't know, what Geralt would be like. He'd like to think he'd know, but he can neither think nor know, for Geralt would have done an unknowable thing by giving Triss the reins—the trust, the faith, the respect. The acknowledgment that she is worthy of Roach. 

This body's mind throws words around. 'Awkward' and 'embarrassed' and 'tired' and 'unhappy', and they're about Geralt, and there are other things, and this mind is pleased that Geralt is not amused, and it is pleased Geralt is branded with braids this body's hands have made. 

They are fearful, these dark thoughts. 

Thoughts that form a hurricane, a blazing inferno, a desert of frost, a frenzied river. They drown Jaskier. He wants to make them go away, but they're not his to control. 

"When would you have time to get them, anyway?" a voice asks, amused. Triss' voice. Jaskier is still stuck in this body, and this body is stuck in this imagination, of where Triss was acknowledged and trusted after a day and two nights, and Jaskier hasn't been acknowledged after five years. 

"Hid from the striga in her tomb," says the conjured Geralt behind Jaskier, chest thrumming against Jaskier's back, voice a deep rumble. 

"Oh?" this Triss' eyebrows rise with interest, and as this Triss is wont to do, she spins around and walks backwards, talking to this Geralt. "Did that cure her?" 

" _Naah,_ " says a different voice. This body's lips move, and they stretch uncomfortably into a toothy smile. Its eyes crinkle. "You see, there was more than one curse. It started with Foltest…" 

And this body speaks and speaks and speaks, and Jaskier feels himself fall further away from this—unreality, this uncontrollable entity, the prison. It recounts the night's events, and it yawns at times, and Triss' attention is on him, not Geralt, and this body's mind howls with victory, because Geralt cannot be amused by Triss, cannot be made happy by Triss, if all of Triss is with this body, with this body's words and completely ignoring the Witcher. 

Eventually, Jaskier sees Rhonwen's face again. There is something bursting this body's seams, and there is a very strange, very dark thought in this head, which whirls around nonstop with bloodlust and frenzy. This body's fingers itch, and Jaskier sees them, the grisly and stained hands holding Rhonwen's body. One is on her face. That hand wants to dig its thumb into Rhonwen's eye. 

Dig deep and deeper and through the socket, into the skull—she is so small the thumb could reach Rhonwen's brain. If not the thumb, the hand could put in a pointer finger, or the middle one, or both, could see if both fit. The hand could check if such a thing would sound like this mind thinks it would, like what it wants to hear _right now._ And these eyes could see and delight in blood, in pain and frustrations freed and gone. 

Would it be warm? It should. It would be _inside_ a living body, after all. A freshly dead body, eventually. But if this is a fantasy, it could be cold. It could be a fantasy where it is warm and wet and bloody and murderous. It could be a fantasy where it is cold and dry and hard as porcelain but hollow like a figurine. A shell. 

These hands _itch_ to check. 

Jaskier knows, rationally, it should not be done. But there is a void of nothing in him, and a lot of rage and fear and exhaustion in this body. 

Too much exhaustion. Rhonwen keeps both eyes. She continues to keep them for the rest of whatever nightmare this is, whatever dream or fantasy Jaskier might be stuck in. 

They camp, eventually. It is in a simple clearing, with Geralt and Jaskier's two tents pitched together. Rhonwen wakes and growls but Geralt casts _Axii_ and she eats jerky from the hand that almost ripped her eye out, and Triss melts snow in a pot over a campfire the Witcher had strategically built, and everything is quick but lasts long, long, _longer_. 

When Rhonwen is cleaner, her paleness meshes into the snow, and this body makes a joke comparing the child to the Witcher, who doesn't find it amusing, but who gently casts _Somne_ on Rhonwen, and lays a protective hand over her stomach when it is time to sleep. 

This body lays with its back against the Witcher's back, and Triss lays on the other side of Rhonwen, and this body is unhappy and angry and greedy and exhausted and loses consciousness more than it falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Google Docs, this chapter is 6070 words. It does not feel like it :( my apologies, dears


	11. this all fades the second that I'm by your side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's legibility is brought to you by: soigner! Absolutely amazing beta who saved my ass. They're a dear and worthy of all praise. Also they send me awesome geraskier analyses and theories for the show and I am so into it.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Insects, body horror (including the insects), a generic nightmare montage, burning to death (in a nightmare, but still). Let me know if I should add more triggers.
> 
> [Chapter title from: When the Storm Subsides by In This Moment]

Jaskier opens his eyes in a world of black and red, standing on weak knees and looking into a bloody sky. The ground is covered in irregular spikes layered beside one another, like ocean waves on paintings of times long passed. He looks around. There is nothing to see but a desert covered in spikes. 

It's very, very quiet. Even as he walks, he can't hear his leather soles against the rock—can't feel the strange unbalance of walking on blades. There is no wind, no life, no trees, _nothing,_ neither close to Jaskier nor in the distance. There's nothing to walk to, nothing to find, but he moves forward anyway. 

Red and black. Black and red. Everything is dark and empty and _quiet._

And his foot is wet. 

Why is his foot wet? 

Jaskier looks down. There is no puddle, neither of water nor blood nor anything else—just the curving, irregular spikes. 

There is no foot, either. But...Jaskier _has_ a foot. He can feel it. It is wet. Where is his foot? Why is it wet? Jaskier moves his hands to his face. He can feel them. He can feel it. His cheeks, his fingers, his nose and mouth, the creases of his palms. Jaskier's eyes are where they should be. 

Why can't he see himself? 

Jaskier takes another step forward. His other foot is also wet. Both of them are. 

There is no puddle or river. No lake or sea. Jaskier can't see his legs or hands or arms, but he _has_ them. He _must_ have them. He must have them because he _feels_ them—the wetness, the warmth, the pain as he pinches and pulls at his face and neck and arms. He has a body, and he has a heart. He can feel it hammer against his ribs, brutally softening them. Unrelenting. He has lungs, turning to stone. He has a stomach, twisting itself into knots. He has a head, light as a feather and empty. 

And there's—something that _wriggles_ against Jaskier's ankle. 

He jumps back, he screams—and he _knows_ he screams, because his throat tears itself raw with it—but everything is so _quiet_. It is so, _so_ quiet even as he lands back in the warm wetness. Deeper in it, now, up to his knees. 

Jaskier tries to run. Get out of it and away from the strange smooth things that writhe and convulse. He can't. Everything is heavy, and the wetness pulls at him like a current, and he runs up, up, up, only to be brought down, down to the squirming thing. 

Jaskier screams again, calling for Geralt. He shuts his eyes, tries to block out the red nothingness. It doesn't help. It makes it _worse._ With his eyes closed, something eclipses the red light of the desert, a halo of blood around a mass of tentacles and mouths and eyes. Its malformed arms and hands pound into the ground. The terror has talons and claws, beaks lined with serrated teeth. It's dark. Pitch black. And yet Jaskier can tell its dark, glistening eyes apart from its peeling sooty skin. Jaskier can tell apart each individual tooth, needlelike and high, high up, and larger than Jaskier himself. 

The mouths and beaks and eyes and teeth, they move around the mass, under and above the writhing tentacles and maggots and worms that burrow their way out of its shadowed frame. 

Jaskier opens his eyes and he sees empty red and black. 

Something flicks against his leg. 

He jumps and flails his arms about; he can't find the shore. He takes ridiculously big, off-balance steps, tries to find something solid to stand on. There is nothing, and the current is so strong. 

Slimy, writhing things brush against his exposed ankles in a swarm. Jaskier cries out. Tears quickly stream down his face. He treads through the water in a panic. He can't jump out of it, can't move quicker, can't escape. The things find him. Over and over, they lose him for seconds and they find him again. No matter what he does, where he travels, where he looks, these things will return. They're sickly slick, unnaturally unwrinkled and velvety. His skin screams in protest, sensitive and overwhelmed. He can't hear anything still. 

Jaskier is hip-deep in the wetness. He's terrified and his face is wet with snot and tears. 

The nothingness he sees is nothing like what he feels. He feels so full, bursting with fear and pain and his skin itself wants to tear itself apart—the phantoms of _whatever the fuck_ is in the wetness with him crawl all over, everywhere. He wants to burn the feeling away. 

He closes his eyes as he cries. Something presses to his leg right as the ever-shifting form of shadows stand before him. Closer, closer, so much closer that he can see the blood from its gums. He can smell it now. The scent of rot and death and the disgusting sweetness that overpowers his nose and sends him to his knees, retching acid. 

He's submerged in the wetness. 

And like starving vultures, the wiggling things descend on him. They're of varying shapes and sizes. They are all disgusting; maggots and worms and slugs and eels. Slimy, constantly moving, unnaturally smooth against his skin. Jaskier covers his eyes and nose and mouth. They can't get in there, Jaskier _refuses._ Even if it makes him see the other hellish monster. 

The shadowy mass stands in a pool of dark, dark red. It oozes this red; fills the valleys and cracks between the angled spikes of the ground. 

A glowing orb travels through the outskirts of the dark mass, above and under the tentacles. It easily glides along. Fat, segmented maggots break through the black carapace. A second orb emerges on the other side, slower and less elegant. 

Jaskier is covered in maggots. Eaten alive as they find their way under his clothes and burrow into his flesh. Jaskier can hear it, the cracking of their shells as they grow bigger, as larva blooms into butterflies in his stomach and throat. They flap their wings and bump into each other and against his veins. They tickle and they are fuzzy and soft against his twitching muscles and calcified lungs. He screams and screams and screams. 

The monster which Jaskier sees in the red-and-black roars. The white orbs meet in the middle of its body, and they shine a blinding light onto Jaskier. Jaskier screeches louder, a sound so very inhuman. A sound like the scream of a striga's suffering. 

There's— _crick-crack, crick-crack_ —they're in his ears the maggots are in his ears they're in they're in theyreintheyrein— _inhisearsinhisearshismouthnoseeyesinhisears—_ And then it's quiet again. Jaskier is cold. He doesn't move, just cries as he lays curled 

up in a fetal position on his side, pressing the knuckles of his fists into his eyes. He weeps and he sobs and he shakes against the cold slab of rock he rests on top of. 

Jaskier doesn't know how long he stays like that. He weeps, he whines, he sobs and bawls, and his body trembles like a leaf trying its damndest to stay on its branch despite the approaching hurricane. 

He tries to stand and he slams his head against a rough rock and falls back down. He slowly pushes the stone cover off. His hands are bleeding, red flowing from them like a waterfall. His blue sleeves are red, his mouth tastes like copper, and it's warm. 

Like the wetness. 

Jaskier sits, leverages his body on his quivering chest and pushes with his legs. He rolls over the edge of the rocky box in which he was entombed. The weight of his legs pulls him further, onto a stair and over the ledge, and he rolls down and down and down. Rocks bite into his head, neck, hands, and feet. His knees hit a ledge in a funny way that makes his toes curl in with sharp pain. 

At the bottom of the stairs, Jaskier stays how he landed for a long, long while. Eventually, the sound of crackling twigs in a campfire wake him, and there's a delectable smell of roasted rabbits. 

Jaskier gets up with great effort. He stands on his sixth attempt, arms and legs numb,unfeeling, and _twisting_ with the memory of the maggots inside and under it—burrowing tunnels,eating, shitting, birthing and breaking out of their shells. Jaskier leans on a tall pillar next to a sconce and he vomits nothing but blood and acid. It wakes a little memory of blurry shapes and a similar burning taste. 

Jaskier leans against the pillar and steadies himself. 

The chamber he is in is a dark mess of shattered blue glass, bones, and filth. Rotten remains litter the floor and blood fills its cracks and holes. Jaskier looks down and pats himself. He sees where he is; he sees what he feels. 

Sans the red rivers which steadily run from his hands, he is clean. 

Jaskier follows the cracking of the campfire and the smell of roasting rabbit. Bones break under his feet like dry twigs. He circles around a pillar. The chamber suddenly changes. Bathed in darkness, Jaskier sees very little despite the massive amount of lights coming in through the gaping hole in the wall. It frames a burning castle in the distance. 

Burning flesh. 

Jaskier's hand twitches. 

The castle, consumed by frenzied fire, crumbles slowly. First goes a tower, then the walls. Brick by brick, it crashes and turns to nothing. Jaskier doesn't know whether there are people in the castle. He cannot hear them, nor should he smell them, but the burning of human flesh is a scent fresh in his nose and it refuses to leave. 

The castle shifts. Is it rebuilding itself? First, a shapeless black form rises, twisting and twitching into place. Slowly, it grows bigger, taller, thinner, disproportionate as it stalks closer on swaying feet. 

Jaskier stands face to face with the striga, whose vertical eyes are no longer black as the night, glistening with bloodlust. They are a warm, soft brown, and Jaskier's mind echoes _Rhonwen Rhonwen Rhonwen,_ whose eye he almost gouged out, who Geralt calmed with magic, and who held tightly onto Jaskier's filthy hands as she drooled over and nipped at dried jerky. 

Bleeding hands lift to Rhonwen's twisting, coal-black face. Coal-black that suddenly glows yellow and orange, a marsh of fire roaring underneath the skin. Rhonwen screams as the fire bursts. She stumbles back, falls to the ground and screams and screeches and whines as she tumbles around, tries to run from a fire that burns her from the inside out. 

After the initial shock, Jaskier jumps after Rhonwen with his heart in his throat. He shrugs off his bloody doublet and throws it on Rhonwen to suffocate the flames. Tears sting his eyes anew. He calls out Rhonwen's name as he brings the doublet over her, again and again, trying his best at something he's never done. The flames quickly consume his doublet. It melts in his hands, turns as white as molten steel, and it falls onto Rhonwen. 

Jaskier and Rhonwen both screech and scream as the melted doublet eats into the floor and into Rhonwen's mess of a body. Jaskier tries to get it off with his bare, bleeding hands but he only burns. 

_Sharp, pulsating pain, a thrumming thunder._

He tries again, but the pain forces him away eventually. Again he tries, and again he jumps back. Over and over and over again. 

His hands are burnt beyond bleeding. Despite this, he can move them. He remembers Rhonwen's body emerging from the cocoon of the striga's horrors; from blood and bone and liquid skin. Jaskier slaps at Rhonwen's strigan body, and chunks fly off, slamming against walls, where they turn to thick, black ooze. Jaskier screams as the fire burns him. Jumps back. Returns. Over and over again. 

He can't find Rhonwen he can't find Rhonwen he can't he can't _he can't._

Jaskier's vision blurs with tears, but he doesn't stop. When everything turns to vague shapes and colors, he doesn't stop. He apologizes to Rhonwen, begs her for forgiveness, pleads _sorry sorry I'm so sorry_ over and over again. He sobs and chokes on his own snot and spit and he tastes his tears in his mouth. He throws himself at the flames. They hurt and burn and Jaskier is a coward; he jumps back before he does anything. The flames don't follow, like they didn't follow his hands and arms, and he's covered in rough brown skin. 

Rhonwen _dies_ as an uncured, suffering, tormented little girl. She turns to nothing but melted flesh and charred bones. 

Jaskier grasps at the glowing embers of her remains, and he cries. He apologizes and begs for forgiveness on his knees, head resting against the ground and hands trembling. 

He falls to his side and weeps. Weeps and whines, sobs and bawls, and crushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. How could he let this happen? How could he? The one thing he came for, the one thing he was to do, and he failed. He failed and Rhonwen _lived_ in suffering and torture and she _died_ in suffering and torture and Jaskier didn't help, was too much of a _coward_ — jumped away from the pain and didn't save her. 

Jaskier failed Rhonwen like he failed everyone else. His family, his friends, _Geralt._ The only thing he's good at is lying; Triss has been deceived and thought he could do it, his professors said he did a good job when he fucking didn't, and people won't tell him straight to his face that they laugh not _with_ him but _at_ him and not everyone is kindhearted enough to lie like that, so some must genuinely believe that to be true and he's _lied_ — 

And now he's lied to Rhonwen. Lied that he could help cure her. Now she's burnt, burnt to nothing but embers and boiling liquid. 

How could he let this happen? 

How could he? _How could he?_

Everything shifts again. 

Jaskier stays as he is, curled up and apologizing, but there is something hard against his back and dust materializes down his throat with every breath. 

Where the _fuck_ is Geralt?! Why isn't he here? Why didn't he save Rhonwen—why did he leave Jaskier alone to watch her burn and die? Why does he not offer useless apologies with Jaskier and beg for a little girl's mercy? 

Something blunt and flat slams into Jaskier's belly. It forces air out of his lungs and he heaves, but his throat is closed up and writhes on the cold floor. 

Two fists lift him by his doublet. Jaskier opens his eyes and thrashes about. 

Adda's room. In Old Vizima. 

Jaskier's hands fly up to slap at the other person's wrists. They don't listen to him and instead grab onto their arms, steadying Jaskier on unsure feet. It's dark, but he can see just fine. Jaskier focuses on Ostrit's face. Bloodied, with a vertical hole through his nose and forehead. It sways from side to side and in circles. Ostrit's cheeks are red with the effort to keep his head up. 

"Here you are," says Ostrit. His moustached lips form a smile Jaksier hasn't ever seen from him before—a smile so stretched that Jaskier is not sure a human could do it. "Here you are, useless. You really overplay your importance, don't you?" 

Ostrit lifts Jaskier off the floor, and Jaskier kicks about. He finally controls his hands and smacks at Ostrit's arms. Jaskier slams his feet into Ostrit's stomach and knees the courtier's chin. Nothing phases Ostrit. He simply throws Jaskier back onto the bed. It caves and the tiny planks of the bed's ceiling and beams of the bedposts collapse onto Jaskier, other debris following down. 

Jaskier can't move—can't _breathe_. Something hard and rough slithers under his hands and he wants to cry but he can't tear himself away. 

"With you speaking for the Witcher, I thought you'd be worth the effort," says Ostrit, walking around the bed. His blood drip-drops onto the stone floor. 

Jaskier whimpers as the rough thing slithers all around him further. Under his shoulder, against his face, and between his knees. 

"But no, no!" Ostrit kicks Jaskier's head—Jaskier's vision blurs and dark spots dance in his vision, and he forgets what he was here for, what he had done. "I take you here, to my dearie's lair, and what do my soldiers tell me? That your Witcher and that Witch have disappeared off into the woods!" 

Geralt...left? Geralt _left?_ With Triss? But why? Jaskier's here—Jaskier's here and the striga isn't cured. She's still suffering. The contract is not fulfilled. And they didn't get Rhonwen. They have to get Rhonwen. They _have_ to. She's just a little four year old girl in pain. Geralt will come back. For Rhonwen and for Jaskier. He _will._

But...Geralt likes Triss, doesn't he? He asks about her, trusts her, is polite and kind and patient. Triss probably has Roach's reins in her hands to lead Geralt to her magical home, far, far away, and _Jaskier would never be allowed that._ Jaskier whimpers. If not for Jaskier, Geralt will at least come for Rhonwen. Right? 

_Burning flesh._

Glowing embers of Rhonwen's pathetic remains. 

Oh, oh gods, Jaskier—how did he forget that? That he's failed, that he didn't save Rhonwen, that he let her die and he let her suffer and—and Geralt will definitely, absolutely come back, right? He knows Jaskier is worthless at this. He knows Jaskier would fail on his own and wouldn't save Rhonwen like he should. 

The hard-slither turns soft. It breaks apart, and suddenly, many small, soft, _squirming_ insects cover him. They rub against him and against each other and they are slimy and their fat, segmented bodies squelch as they move. Jaskier kicks around and tries to get out. He _needs_ to get out. Everything and anything _but_ the maggots, not the maggots, please, please, please pleasepleaseplease— 

Jaskier sobs, keens and whimpers as he tries to get away. Away from the maggots, the worms, the squelching, the slimy-smooth warmth against his skin—he's buried under wooden planks, why is it _warm,_ why is it _soft?_ He tries to get away from Ostrit, but every move, every shiver and every twitch send him deeper into the this hell. Into this nightmare. 

The maggots slither against his face. 

They—they're— _crick-crack, crick-crack_ —they're in his ears in his ears the maggots are _in his ears._

Jaskier lashes out with a sob and balls his hands into fists and tries to squash the insects, to kill them. He tries to hide his nose and mouth in his shirt. 

The maggots and worms are already there. 

He can't go away and he can smell that sickening sweetness of molding flesh— 

* * *

Everything shifts again. Differently than before, now it was painfully sudden. Forceful and sharp, tugged into a different state of being, a different world, like a black cat in a bag getting its first taste of icy waters. 

Thunder roars in his ears. There's a wardrum in his chest that hammers against his lungs and his ribs, and black spots dance in his vision. His body is alien, but it is his—just trembles uncontrollable, cold, and clammy. Not the moist hotness of the maggots and their blood and slime, but uncomfortably similar, and Jaskier heaves. His stomach is helpfully empty, but nausea bites bitterly at his throat and tongue, and he tastes acid and salt. 

Salt? Oh, he's crying. Cold streaks cut uneven paths down his cheeks, temples and nose. His cheeks throb. No, not both, only _one_ , the left. It throbs and pulsates to the rhythm of his heart, which beats as fast as hummingbirds flap their wings. The throbbing pain is dull and deep, aftermaths of a sharper sting. 

Jaskier's chemise clings to him coldly. Something _smooth_ drags across his skin. 

He hears them again. Creaking carapaces and cracking cocoons, worming their ways under his clothes and into his skin. Jaskier whines at the back of his throat, high-pitched, and a sob shakes him. He tries to get away, away from the maggots and their disgusting sounds and their slithering but he _can't._

He kicks around, shakes his shoulders, and thrashes his head about. There's something binding his hands. Fuck! _Ostrit_ , Ostrit has him still. And the striga's dead, and Geralt left with Triss, and what the _fuck_ is Jaskier supposed to do? 

"Jaskier, calm down," says a deep, rumbling voice. Jaskier's eyes zone in on a gold stare—cat eyes and white eyebrows, dark circles around the eyes, and pale lavender veins. 

There's a hand on Jaskier's face where the throbbing is at its strongest. Jaskier's breath hitches and stops in its tracks. Golden cat eyes. White eyebrows. Scars on a pronounced jawline. Missing earlobe from where Rhonwen's strigan claws tore it off. 

The Witcher. _Geralt._

Jaskier sucks in a breath, a wave of relief crashing through him. With it, it brings more tears. It is a comfort that paves the way for fear and sadness. Jaskier's lips bare his teeth in a contorted grimace. A sob jolts him. He hiccups and flutters his eyes to blink away the tears. He tries to breathe slower, go gentler on his bile-clogged throat and lungs. 

Geralt frees his hands and Jaskier immediately latches onto Geralt's shirt. He buries himself into the Witcher's chest, keeping in his sniffles and muffling his cries. Geralt brings Jaskier closer, thick, heavy arms crowding him. Slowly, one of Geralt's hands makes its way to Jaskier's head, and its fingers gently card through his hair. 

For some reason, that makes Jaskier's sobs worsen. It's exhausting, but Jaskier can't sleep, because he still feels maggots burrowing tunnels into his skin and butterflies blooming in his lungs. It _hurts_ and it tickles and Jaskier can feel something try to force its way out of his throat, and he is terrified that he'll choke on rainbow wings. That he'll be able to feel it wriggle in the back of his throat— 

"It was just a dream," says Geralt, hugging Jaskier closer. Geralt is warm, warm like the blood where the maggots lived and where they first attacked. 

Jaskier knows, he _does_ , that he's safe and it was a dream and Rhonwen is behind Geralt. Between Geralt and Triss, safe and cured but maybe suffering _still_ and he knows that Rhonwen's life will be ripped from her again when they give her to the dryads. 

At least this time there will be a different life waiting for her. 

Something cracks somewhere in the woods. Perhaps a twig snapping under a little creature. 

It's innocuous; it's normal forest sounds and Geralt doesn't react, so clearly it cannot be dangerous. But the sound sends Jaskier into a frenzy. Instead of thunder, in his ears echoes the moist wriggling of the maggots and cockroach carapaces. His hair, saturated with his own cooling sweat, feels like worms against his temples and forehead. Jaskier lets out a frail howl. 

His head pounds to the beat of his heart, sharp and blinding with its intensity, a near-constant surge of disorienting flashes. 

Jaskier shudders and tastes his tears again. 

Geralt's hand lifts from Jaskier's head. There's a soft light and a thrum of magic against Jaskier's clammy skin. On the receiving end of a reluctant _Somne,_ Jaskier falls asleep. 

* * *

The second time Jaskier wakes, it's slow. He slowly wades his ways through the deep waters of slumber, and he slowly opens to see a mess of cloaks and furs all around him. Several layers of cloth and hide rest on him. Their weight feels like an embrace. Jaskier takes his time breathing in and breathing out. Many things are hidden by dense mists, but Jaskier is _okay_ now. He's just a little empty, but he is calm. 

His hands are in front of his face, softly curled into fists and gripping onto thin air as though it was the Witcher's shirt. Jaskier remembers that. The mists dull his feelings and thoughts. He knows not if he is embarrassed or happy or comforted, if the hollowness inside him is because he has been left to lie alone or if he would have awoken as a shell even with white hair in his eyes. 

Jaskier lets himself lay under the warm covers for a long time. He doesn't want to get up at all. Not when the empty is so heavy. But the Witcher, Witch, and Rhonwen are not in the tent anymore, and Jaskier can tell the sun is high in the sky, for both the dark green of the tent and Jaskier's eyelids don't prevent the stinging of harsh sunlight in his eyes. 

He flutters them rapidly. Eventually they get used to the light, just enough that he can squint and see blurry shapes. Jaskier rises sluggishly. He wipes dried tears, snot and drool of yesterday's night from his face with the sleeve of his cloak. 

Which…he doesn't remember putting on. Jaskier glances at himself, vision sharpening with every blink of his eyes. His filthy blue doublet has been replaced by one of his heavier woolen houppelandes, a rich yellow hue with massive sleeves and a white belt, decorated with floral engravings. Jaskier knows the Witcher wouldn't dress him like so, and the Witch wouldn't know that this combination of garments is amongst his favorite. There's little doubt in his mind that he's dressed himself, but he can't seem to remember that no matter how hard he tries. 

That which he mistook for a cloak is actually just a long scarf, wrapped around his head, neck and shoulders in his preferred style. The scarf is an old purchase from his first truly successful performance on the road with the Witcher. Coin flew at him from all directions. Jaskier had impulsively bought a charmed, black-wool scarf, which cost him all of that night's gains. The Witcher had not been amused and had slapped Jaskier on the shoulder, but didn't make more comments about it. 

Hell, Jaskier even made the Witcher wear it a few times. He has a feeling the Witcher would have put up a bigger fight about it if the scarf was any other color. 

Jaskier nuzzles his face into the scarf. Some of it still smells like the Witcher from where it was pressed against its chest. Jaskier breathes it in and softly caresses it with the tips of his fingers. Something settles in Jaskier's stomach and head, everything a little clearer. He is still...far from himself, his thoughts and feelings, but they are not completely hidden by the mists. He can see their silhouettes and recognize them by name. 

A down-side is that now he can tell just how embarrassing and awkward last night must have been and he is really, really thankful that neither the Witcher nor the Witch put up a fight about Brokilon. Now Jaskier _knows_ at the very least he will die and that is a comfort. He won't have to live with this failure for long. He won't live in the wake of the Witcher's abandonment for long. 

That's good. 

Jaskier gets up and out of the tent, not thinking much about his bandaged hands—even if there is a distinct panic building itself behind the mists. Why does he not remember so much? What has he missed? What did he do when he wasn't really there, when he was unreal and deep in the ocean's darkness? 

There is a fresh layer of snow. It shimmers like diamond dust. Where it catches the light, it is a golden hue; the shadows as blue as the morning sky. Someone—or several someones—have walked through the campsite, stomping most of the snow flat. It's bigger further away from the tent where Roach stands on bandaged forelegs. Her tarp seems to have become a permanent feature, clasped and tied to her with thicker, fur-lined belts which Geralt only unearths from the saddlebags when he and Jaskier part ways before winter. 

The campfire is wide, but flat, and it's mostly just embers. The wood which lays on it smolders and chars, but doesn't burn. Still, it heats the air pleasantly. Jaskier breathes in, and basks in the sunlight that hits his face. 

"Ah, you're finally awake!" says a voice. Jaskier turns to it, and sees Triss and Rhonwen, carrying more wood in their arms. 

They both have been fashioned clothing out of various cloaks, blankets, shirts, and furs that the Witcher keeps in its enchanted saddlebags of holding. Triss wears Jaskier's gambeson, white with an added layer of voided green velvet that turned it from _just_ practical to a work of art. It was too big for her, and the sleeves covered her palms. Rhonwen was dressed in a black undershirt of the Witcher cinched with a belt at the waist, and both the legs of Jaskier's borrowed pants and sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, comically dwarfing her elongated appendages. She also wore a scarf, tied in a similar fashion to Jaskier's, but looser and skewed. There are at least seven different belts and strings on her, keeping her clothing in place. 

Jaskier smiles at the two. Something at the back of his mind flickers with amusement, seeing Rhonwen's wide, crabby stance and her swaying gait. She looked like a hunting bird, but her big, brown eyes were dazed and curious. 

"Decided to get some beauty sleep, though it's not like I really _need_ it," Jaskier nods at them. Triss drops her sticks and twigs and Rhonwen follows suit, bending down in an almost perfect imitation of Triss' movements. Jaskier crouches to Rhonwen's level. He adjusts her scarf, cradles her hands in his and blows hot air on them. Rhonwen's eyes almost bulge out of her sockets and when Jaskier moves to stand, Rhonwen shoves her fingers against Jaskier's mouth. 

On the side, Triss giggles, and builds makeshift walls of sticks around the campfire, so they'd dry faster. 

Jaskier raises a brow at the Witch, flicks snow at her face, and then returns to warming Rhonwen's hands. Triss gasps. Jaskier feigns innocence, even though he knows Triss knows it was him, and the Witch launches a bit of bark at him. A bit of bark which Rhonwen grabs out of the air with her mouth. 

"Ah!" Jaskier admonishes, taking the wood between his fingers, and tugging at it. Rhonwen grits her jaw more. "No, no, you are not a dog, come on, you'll get sick, let it go—" 

Jaskier taps at Rhonwen's cheek and Rhonwen slaps her hands onto Jaskier's mouth. He takes Rhonwen's small jaw into his hand and tries to insert his fingers in between the hinges. Rhonwen puts up a good fight, even covering Jaskier's eyes at some point, but eventually Jaskier wins—and thank the gods for that, imagine losing in a battle of strengths against a four-year-old—and he throws the bark at Triss grinning face. 

Rhonwen lets out a battle cry and jumps on Jaskier, which he turns into a hug and rubs her head. That seems to have a calming effect as Rhonwen turns to putty and latches onto him. 

"What was up with that?" Jaskier muses, coming over to Triss. She shrugs. 

"Geralt did say that _Axii_ isn't perfect. I'm not even sure what he does with it. He doesn't give a command or anything," says Triss, momentarily warming her hands in the heat of the campfire. Jaskier nods. 

"How come my shoes fit her?" he asks, elbowing them to Rhonwen's chagrin, which she makes known by elbowing Jaskier's shoulder. He tickles her side, and she screeches. "There's no way her feet are that big." 

"Geralt wrapped them in some bandages," says Triss. "They still move, but the belts help." 

Rhonwen slams her hands against Jaskier's neck and shoulders and her little giggles sound almost pained, so he stops his barrage of tickles. Rhonwen goes limp, crashing her face into the crook of his neck. Jaskier goes to greet Roach and Rhonwen seems very happy with that—most especially with the hot puffs of air from Roach's nose. Roach valiantly accepts Rhonwen's less than gentle pats and nuzzles. 

Jaskier sets Rhonwen down, and she stays by Roach's muzzle. Jaskier easily finds his journal and charcoal pencil in the outer pockets. He fishes out some jerky to lure Rhonwen away from Roach, since the wondrous mare does like her privacy. 

Rhonwen pounces on the jerky with a crazed ferocity, unused to her dull baby teeth. 

Jaskier pushes Rhonwen back to the campfire, where Triss stretches her legs. She has finished her drying wall of sticks. Jaskier hands her some of the jerky as well, which she warms up between her hands and with her breath. Rhonwen starts doing the same with hers. Jaskier isn't particularly hungry, so he props up his journal on his chest and arm and gets to planning out his strigan song. 

"Composing already?" Triss asks. 

"Nah," says Jaskier. "I'm trying to figure out which angle to write from. There's so many possibilities, but I really like a selected few and I can't decide which to make…" 

"What are they? Can I see?" Triss steps closer, craning her neck as she bites into her jerky. There wasn't much to see on the deckled pages besides a lot of charcoal powder embedded into the paper. It looks messy and ugly, but at least the page isn't _empty,_ and that's part of the reason why Jaskier prefers charcoal to lead. Jaskier goes along and angles his journal so Triss can see it better. 

"There are three I'm stuck between," he starts, and notes what he says in simply key words and open-ended concepts. "First, with a focus on the love curses. It, ah, is my favorite idea so far, but it just so happens to erase Geralt from it. And all magic. It's about Adda, who hadn't the strength or skill to fight against those who manipulated and hurt her, so she leaves behind weapons for her daughter to find after her passing. And the daughter, Rhonwen, would then kill Foltest and Ostrit in her mother's name." 

"A self-fulfilling prophecy?" Triss butts in. Jaskier finds a frustration coming to life through the mist, a hot, burning flare, but there is also something further in the mist that smiles with appreciation for her interest. Both are quickly squashed and forgotten as Rhonwen claws up Jaskier's back. He yelps, but stays still. Rhonwen balances on Jaskier's shoulder, putting a hand on Triss' head, and she looks at the journal. 

Despite the writing looking like meaningless scribbles to her, Rhonwen sets her sights on it with great interest. 

"Sort of," replies Jaskier to Triss. "I was thinking I could imply in the song that Adda's spirit had possessed her daughter's body, who was going to be a stillborn. Adda herself would be fighting back against those that hurt her." 

"Do you already know how you'd do it?" Triss wonders around a mouthful of jerky. 

"Ah, not quite, but maybe…" Jaskier thinks about it for a little while. He makes a mindless scribble in the corner that looked suspiciously a lot like a fluffy bee with bulbous eyes. He added the tiniest of wings to it. "Well, it all depends on which devices I'll decide to use, but if we go with butterflies, then perhaps 'the cocoon is little but a phase / metamorphosis is neither beginning nor the end/ as the queen walks into death's gentle haze / royal wings sprout from the next to ascend'?" Jaskier trails off. He turns the phrase over in his mind. It's very much on the nose, but… 

"It could work for a mage's ascension, too," says Triss. 

"How does that work, actually?" Jaskier asks. "Do you mind if I take notes?" 

"No, no, go ahead!" Triss smiles. "Chaos has a—well, when you're born with a gift for it, it can affect you in many ways. Many of us are born looking, ah, 'wrong'. Ascension makes us immortal, but it also allows us to take control over what Chaos has given us and make our bodies truly _ours._ " 

"That sounds very cool, actually," says Jaskier, looking off unseeingly into the distance. "Like reclaiming ownership over your body." His eyes stray to Triss. She suddenly seems shy. 

"You want to know what I reclaimed?" she guesses. 

Jaskier nods sheepishly. "You don't have to—" 

"No, I know," Triss cuts him off. "But I don't think I'll ever... _own_ it, like I want to own myself, if I sweep it under the rug. It's just—I was luckier than most, you know? I had a pretty good life. It's just that...everyone thought I was a boy. I had the parts, the voice, the name, and I never _said_ anything about it. I didn't—hate it? But when Yennefer, my tutor, I mentioned her before, she had me try out a dress for a dare once and I—that's kind of—it was like a revelation, you know? As if Melitele herself stood before me and gave me a mirror to truly see myself and who I was. Like she showed me my soul." 

"I fail to see how that makes you 'luckier than most', as you said. Most would say being seen as the wrong gender is hell," says Jaskier. There's something in the mists that glowers at him, but he's not sure _why._ Silver hair comes to mind. 

"I was happy," says Triss. "Even when living as _someone else._ I knew something wasn't quite right, but I could look away from it. Some sorceresses grow up hunchbacked and beaten and hated. I didn't have it _good,_ I know, but...it was enough." 

"Since you're allergic to magic, how did you survive? The ascension, I mean?" 

"A lot of healers, support, and pure determination," says Triss. "I wasn't going to lose myself right when I found out who I was. Knowing myself, being myself, that was all I wanted, death be damned." 

They stand in silence. Rhonwen makes an inquisitive groan, but no one answers. Triss looks lost, eyes trained on the dancing shimmers of the snow. Jaskier adds 'marigolds and flowers' to his list of devices for the song. 

"I'm happy Melitele gave you that mirror of souls," he says, "because you've become a wonderful garden. Chose the right name, didn't you?" 

Triss snorts, presses her shoulder into Jaskier's, jostling Rhonwen. The girl squeaks and clambers onto Triss' back, holding on like a monkey. Triss motions to Jaskier's journal with her chin. 

"What are the other two?" 

The mist thins. 

Jaskier jumps back into his musical musings. The first idea has the most philosophical meaning, and it would make for a wonderful epic ballad, and Triss agrees he definitely should write it. However, he does need an inn jingle to celebrate Geralt's victory. The second song is more like a fairy tale; Geralt as a prince coming to ask about the royal princess who had been promised to him when he was a child, with Foltest and Ostrit working as allies to hide the terrors of what they've done. Jaskier liked it less and less as he explained it, and Triss also agreed it isn't the best choice. 

The third was a less fictionalised retelling, which Jaskier knows Geralt would appreciate. Really, for someone who internalised a Rivian accent just to make his dart-chosen name appear more genuine, that man lacks any appreciation for the fantastical and the dramatic. 

"I will have to end it with the striga's death, though, I think," says Jaskier. Triss frowns. Before she can ask, Jaskier quickly explains, "No one particularly likes the dryads. If they'd know that the Temerian princess is one of them, bloodline fanatics like Cintra or Redania will be marching straight into the woods to steal her and get a claim to the throne. Or they'll kill her, just so she couldn't suddenly decide to legitimize herself as a Queen." 

Triss frowns further and she glares into the distance. Jaskier couldn't help but find it amusing, as she held the jerky strip between her teeth. Then, she sighs. 

"Redania really will jump at this opportunity, won't they?" she says, eventually. Her arms cross themselves tightly. 

"Maybe they'll be lucky and Temerians will rule themselves," says Jaskier, not believing a word. Going by her huff, Triss also knows he simply plays devil's advocate. 

"Oh? And what more? Nilfgaard will end the civil war in the south and free its provinces?" 

Jaskeir and Triss share a pessimistic smile. Rhonwen attempts her own. It comes out awkward and warbled. Jaskier closes his journal and hides it in his pocket. He takes Rhonwen off of Triss, and she goes surprisingly easily, although she refuses to be held. Instead, she stands on Jaskier's shoulders. It effectively traps his head. Jaskier wides his stance and lifts his arms so he doesn't fall over. Rhonwen balances herself similarly. 

"You know, considering how much she imitates us, maybe we'll get her to talk before Brokilon," says Jaskier. Triss raises a brow, unconvinced. 

"No, really! I'll sing a children's rhyme, and you'll join in when you catch on. Maybe she'll get it!" 

"I doubt she'll form words, Jaskier," Triss says, but doesn't refuse. Jaskier shrugs and grasps Rhonwen's pronounced ankles when she sways backwards. 

"Doesn't matter! Maybe she'll hum! Or scream rhythmically," says Jaskier and tickles Rhonwen's side. She slaps at his arm, letting out a crow-like caw. Then, Jaskier begins to sing a song he remembers studying in Oxenfurt. 

" _The old hen she cackled, she cackled in the lot.  
The next time she cackled, she cackled in the pot. _

_The old hen she cackled, she cackled and she cooed.  
The next time she cackled, the rooster cackled too. _

_The old hen she cackled, she cackled in the pen.  
The next time she cackled, she cackled in the glen. _

_The old hen she cackled, she cackled and she cooed.  
The next time she cackled, the rooster cackled too. _

_The old hen she cackled, she cackled on the fence.  
The townsfolk came and gathered, and she ain't cackled since."_

Triss joined in in the repeat of the first refrain after Jaskier had seen her memorise the rhymes by the twitches in her fingers. Rhonwen became very animated and almost ended the song when she _jumped_ off of Jaskier's shoulders when the first opportunity presented itself. Rather than sing words, Rhonwen started jumping about and clapping her hands to the rhythm, exactly as Jaskier had been clapping his hands on his thighs. She also seemed to be trying to howl the words, which instead came out as coos that, somehow, actually fit quite well with Jaskier and Triss' harmonics. 

Triss' voice broke adorably on the higher notes, which Jaskier started doing on purpose to give it a more unified sound. The end result was ridiculous, especially when Triss caught on and made the strangest inflections that Jaskier tried his best to anticipate. On the sixth repeat, 'cackled' and 'cooed' no longer sounded like words. 

Jaskier almost bursts with laughter when he catches sight of the Witcher, who simply stands off to the side with a doe slung over its shoulder, disbelief written all over its face. 

Triss stops singing at Jaskier's reaction, then fails to muffle a snort. Rhonwen lets out a roar and pounces on Geralt's doe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Old Hen song is a p fun folk song, tbh. I think the game fans miiiiiight get a little bit of an inkling as to what (or rather, _who_ ) it might relate to :D
> 
> Also, in regards to Triss: while re-reading her dialogue i realized the way she phrases things can potentially come off as a bit truscum-y/transmedicalistic, so i really want to say this loud and clear; in this house we support all trans people and they are so incredibly valid. whether you feel gender and body dysphoria, or like triss you're more the gender euphoria kind of person, you're valid as shit. if you don't wanna transition? hell yeah, valid. if you want to transition? hell yeah, valid.  
> and yes jaskier is being a blind, semi-hypocritical idiot with a case of cognitive dissonance in regards to gender and geralt, but it shall be addressed in the future


	12. big bangs from the littlest of things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Jaskier has some very negative thoughts about himself (mentions of manipulation, death/suicide, coercion), discussion/mention of using a child as a solution to problems, injury to hand that is almost immediately healed.
> 
> Another fluffy chapter :D  
> And again, beta'ed by the lovely soigner, who is a joy and I am honored by her help.
> 
> [Chapter title brought to you by: Infinitesimal by Mother Mother]

Jaskier yelps as Rhonwen slams into him on her way to the Witcher. She runs with elbows tucked strangely close to her body. It would have looked ridiculous and graceless if only it didn't remind Jaskier of the way the striga had moved, her gnarly body bending in twisted ways. An image flashes before his eyes—an image of a distorted shadow pouncing onto Geralt, of a dark silhouette fading in and out of sight in the deep night. Jaskier's heart skips a beat and he runs after Rhonwen. 

Unfortunately, the child is far too quick. She squats and her skinny legs propel her far and high up into the air. The Witcher side-steps Rhonwen, her claws just barely grazing against the doe's hide. 

She lands with a snarl. Her stance has gone from almost inconspicuously human to something more wild—more _feral_. Her back slopes downward, hair casting deep shadows over her face. Her dark eyes gleam with ravenous hunger. She stands on her tiptoes, knees bent and feet far apart. Rhonwen's nails suddenly seem sharper. She doesn't look _angry_ —but nevertheless dangerous. 

Rhonwen bares her blunt, square little teeth, and wastes no time in lurching at the Witcher again. 

Jaskier grabs her while she's still in the air. Rhonwen growls and throws her arms about, booted feet battering Jaskier's knees. 

"Rhonwen, hey, little one, please calm down," Jaskier says, kneeling. "I get that you're hungry, but you can't eat meat raw anymore." 

Rhonwen obviously does not understand what he says, and Jaskier doesn't know why he expected anything else. She stops her kicking but doesn't let up her escape attempt. Rhonwen stomps her feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier can see the Witcher's free arm write out _Axii._ It never finishes it, for Rhonwen digs her claws into Jaskier's hands and he lets go of her with a pained hiss. 

On one hand, he has the vague memory of the numbing cream— _'we need to get supplies, there's not much of it left,'_ he had said—and with the dull, barely-there discomfort in his arms, he guesses he had used it. Not on his healed _palms,_ however, onto which Geralt had poured Triss' potion back in Old Vizima. 

Jaskier bends forward and cradles his hands to his chest with a groan. 

Rhonwen makes quite a lot of noises, many of them growls, but they cut off quickly. Triss seems to materialize by Jaskier's side. She puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder and eases him back up. The Witch takes Jaskier's hands into hers and the Witcher lifts a floundering Rhonwen by the scruff of her neck and walks over. 

"How bad is it?" the Witcher asks. 

Jaskier slowly uncurls his hands, the motion helped by Triss when he hisses at the painful stretch. Triss lets go and opens up the garment she borrowed, under which she had a few belts connected to various pouches. She opens the pouches one by one, looking for something: a potion, or elixir, maybe? Is there a difference between those? 

Jaskier only barely notices the Witcher's growl, before a small, scarf-covered head comes into view. Jaskier looks up and sees that the Witcher's grip on Rhonwen has slipped; it is now holding onto the girl by the shirt that looks like a dress and Rhonwen has her feet firmly planted on the Witcher's thigh, standing almost perpendicular with the ground. 

She sniffs at Jaskier's hands, pupils dilating at the sight of blood. _'Oh fuck,'_ he thinks, expecting a sudden barrage of claws and hungry teeth. Instead, a single knuckly finger pokes at the edge of the—the _hole_ in his palm that Rhonwen had dug out. 

Jaskier swears and flinches away, stumbling back on his knees. Rhonwen's pupils constrict and her face contorts into something that mirrors Triss' earlier reaction. Upturned, furrowed eyebrows, a scrunched nose, and a slightly open mouth. Rhonwen steps down from the Witcher's thigh and it puts its big hand on her shoulder. Both of them slowly come closer, the Witcher pulling Rhonwen back when she jerks forward. The girl looks at the blood on her hands. Sniffs it. Her mouth twists into a tight frown. 

Triss stands by his side and takes one of his hands in hers, holding it still. 

"This is a diluted potion so it doesn't have the same numbing effects as the first," she says in a tone suspiciously close to a warning. Jaskier sucks in a breath. 

"It'll hurt, I presume?" he guesses. Triss nods, and he shrugs. "Get on it, then." 

The Witcher settles on Jaskier's other side. The hand that is not holding Rhonwen in place is on the doe it has brought back from its hunt. Jaskier glances briefly at it. Its expression looks closer to constipated than anything else, but Jaskier knows that if the Witcher didn't care, it'd leave to take care of that doe by now. Rhonwen's eyes flicker from Jaskier's hands to hers. Her nose flares as she scents the air. 

Triss finally spills a few drops onto Jaskier's hand. It fucking _burns_. Jaskier growls in pain but holds still. 

Rhonwen does not. 

She comes to life with a screech, batting Triss away from Jaskier. Triss jumps back and the Witcher grips Rhonwen's shoulder hard enough to make her flinch. 

"No, no, it's alright," Jaskier says, patting the Witcher's wrist. It glares at him but removes the protective hand. Jaskier shows his hands to Rhonwen. The hand onto which Triss poured her potion had healed considerably; once Jaskier wipes away the blood with his elbow, the wound resembles a skinned knee rather than a cavern. 

Rhonwen studies his hands and sniffs them again. Her head snaps to the vial that Triss holds. She stomps over to the Witch and rips the potion out of her hands. The girl doesn't listen to the Witch's protests and pours the rest of the contents onto Jaskier's palms. She even puts a bit onto her own, which she then massages onto the backs of his hands and watches in fascination as the smaller cuts disappear out of sight. 

It's difficult to keep himself still, but Jaskier manages. He smiles at Rhonwen when she looks up at him. Rhonwen mimics his smile. 

"Thanks," says Jaskier and pats her head. 

Rhonwen trills. It's a very strange but happy noise. She gives the empty vial back to Triss, who avoids the blood marks Rhonwen left on it when she took it. Rhonwen looks to her hands again. She makes a sad face, then one that looks grumpy, and then settles on a face that almost perfectly encaptures the Witcher's default frown. Rhonwen walks over to the Witcher and wipes her hands into its black cloak. 

Jaskier giggles. 

* * *

The Witcher cuts up the doe not far from Roach. Something rarely done, as the Witcher does not like exposing its beloved horse to such sights, but Rhonwen had decided to pet Roach and refuses to stop. Someone has to keep an eye on her, and the Witcher of course volunteered. 

"She's very intelligent," Triss notes when she and Jaskier settle on their respective sides of the campfire, with furs and hides protecting their bottoms from the snow. 

"And compassionate," Jaskier adds. "I wonder...is it her character, or Geralt's _Axii?_ " 

"Could be both," says Triss. Jaskier considers this, shrugs, and warms his hands by the flames. The atmosphere changes just a bit. Jaskier looks up, and Triss appears deeply bothered. After a few moments, she catches Jaskier's prodding gaze. An unusual awkwardness rises. Jaskier wonders how she could so confidently order them around in Vizima but out in the wilderness, she turns to such a bashful woman? 

"I—uh," Triss stutters. She takes in a deep breath, steels her nerves, and shakes herself out of it. She crosses her legs, hugging them to her chest. It makes her look very young. "You said to take her to Brokilon. It's not a bad idea. But...I was wondering, could I take her, instead?" 

Jaskier's heart stops for a brief second. His stomach freezes over with a sudden chill. 

"Why?" he asks. In the back of his mind, Jaskier knows the Witcher's hearing reaches so far. This brings a little comfort. 

"My tutor Yennefer has always wanted a child," Triss says. "She's a good friend and she taught me well—took me under her wing when the Brotherhood wouldn't. I'd like to thank her for that." 

"A child isn't a _toy_ to give someone as a gift," Jaskier grits out. Triss frowns. "Furthermore, if that Yennefer really wants a child, why hasn't she adopted one yet? You make it sound as if she's still not a mother." 

"For her—hmm…" Triss thinks over what she says. "It's a bit of a pride thing. She wants to be the first sorceress to have a biological child and has been working on it for a few years now. But...no such luck. I was thinking, Rhonwen might not be _her_ child, but there's still a challenge there. So, maybe—" 

" _No,_ " Jaskier interrupts with a growl. He feels the raw force of that single word in the back of his throat as he glares at Triss. His hands _itch_ —they itch with a brutal desire. Jaskier is rational enough to be scared of it, to be disgusted that he is so quick to violence. He is also angry enough that his voice drips with venom and his hands ball into fists he knows he won't use. 

"Children are not your toys, not your experiments or your magical _fucking_ fixes. Rhonwen is not yours or Yennefer's to do whatever you want with." 

Triss immediately shrinks back and averts her eyes. 

"That's not what I—" she starts, but Jaskier cuts her off. 

"That's exactly what you are implying," he grumbles. "That Rhonwen is a fun little experiment for your tutor to stroke her ego with. _Fuck_ that! I know Brokilon isn't the best option, but at least the dryads will _take care_ of her, not _use_ her." 

"I didn't mean it like that," Triss says weakly. 

"Are you sure?" 

Then there's a squeal to Jaskier's right. Rhonwen slams into him and almost falls over, but Jaskier catches her last minute. He rearranges the girl so she sits on his straightened knees. Rhonwen shows off a pair of sticks, each gripped tight in her hands. 

Jaskier smiles. He takes one and Rhonwen makes that strange trill again, jumping off of him. She stands to the side. There's an expectation in her big, brown eyes. She waves the stick, which has a long strip of meat wrapped around it—as does Jaskier's. 

"Oh, stick-roasted doe," he comments. He adjusts his position, getting closer to the fire and facing it. He holds the stick out. Rhonwen mimics him, sticking out her tongue in concentration. "I hope this tree doesn't leave a taste like ashmarrow does." 

"It _is_ ashmarrow," says the Witcher, arriving with a variety of meats in its hands. It sets them to the side and hands a meat-wrapped stick to Triss. Jaskier grunts in slight disgust at his own. 

The Witcher prepares the fire for the rest of the meat. It makes a feeble grill out of thin twigs. The pieces of the doe that soon rest on it look far too heavy, but the twigs stubbornly hold their ground. With great effort, for they are as arched as bows, but they have not yet fallen or broken. 

The Witcher sits beside Jaskier close enough that he can soak in its heat. 

It's very nice. 

Except it _isn't,_ and Jaskier doesn't know _why._

The mist had cleared earlier, but it returns. Slowly and surely, clouds eclipse Jaskier's mind, and a dense, dark fog turns him numb again. It's not unusual for him—he's used to that vague _nothing._ He doesn't feel _empty,_ exactly. He can hear echoes of himself and his emotions. He sees their dark silhouettes move beyond the veil. 

But...it's still _nothing._ Jaskier doesn't _feel_ anything; doesn't recognize the sounds or shapes. 

Jaskier lets himself drift in the fog. There's not much else to be done, anyway. Rhonwen entertains herself with the meat on her stick. She checks it very often, studies the way it cooks, roasts, and changes hue. Then she'll notice that no one else 

does that, and put it back over the fire. She stomps excitedly in place, unexpectedly patient. The Witcher sits on its knees, eyes closed but senses reaching far; listening intently and periodically scenting the air. 

The Witch makes conversation with Jaskier and he knows he responds, but he doesn't pay attention. The mist envelops him. 

Rhonwen will go to Brokilon. They'll take her there. Jaskier personally, probably. He hopes so. He doesn't want the dryads to send a scout to come and get Rhonwen. It'd be easier; the best-case scenario for the Witcher and the Witch. 

However, Jaskier feels his heart shrink at the idea. If the dryads send a scout, how the _fuck_ is Jaskier supposed to die by their hands? He can't antagonize them whilst still in Triss' or the Witcher's vicinity. That might doom them, and as far as Jaskier is aware, they don't want to die. He can't do that to them. 

If Jaskier is sent into Brokilon with Rhonwen, however, he has his chance. He doesn't fear to ask this of the dryads. After all, they famously are hostile to most humans, with very few exceptions. So few, in fact, they could be myths. 

The dryads _will_ kill him. Even if unprovoked, they are a massive danger. It's wonderful. Jaskier floats close to what seems to be happiness when he thinks about this, about his death, about arrows piercing his body—but he can't quite feel it and can’t flow to it. He drifts by. 

Should Jaskier write a note? He could leave it behind with the Witcher, write it a few short odes, explain himself, and thank the Witcher for tolerating Jaskier for so long. While Jaskier doesn't _appreciate_ this whole 'being alive' thing, the Witcher is...the nicest person Jaskier has ever met. 

Jaskier is still mad he's lived for so long when he could have marched straight into Brokilon and rot on its grounds with an arrow through his forehead, but... 

He doesn't have a 'but'. He's not sure anyone does to something like this. 

He'd rather be dead. Wonderful, kind Witcher or no Witcher at all, Jaskier wants to die. It's a never-ending desire, a background hum that's been there so long that Jaskier doesn't notice it anymore unless he focuses on it or thinks about it. 

Jaskier doesn't think about it often, because when he does, he gets sad and miserable. He goes into the woods at random, picks berries and flowers, and sometimes even chases a little woodland creature. The Witcher either protects him, or no animals have the decency to throw themselves at him. Destiny has an awful lot of laughs, throwing 

Jaskier into the hands of good people during winter. He's can't refuse the kindness of strangers who go out of their way to heal Jaskier when they find him frostbitten black and blue. It seems ungrateful. 

Jaskier _is_ ungrateful for all those times. He did, after all, go into the forest during winter storms to chase after death. But it's—it just feels horrible. He would feel so guilty if he were to rudely disregard the effort these people have put into keeping him safe. Jaskier doesn't even remember them. Only vaguely is he aware that he had spent a winter entertaining at a brothel, and got mistaken for a different kind of performer enough times that he started pretending to be a religious eunuch who's taken a vow of celibacy. 

Would it be rude if Jaskier killed himself now, considering all of the effort Geralt puts into keeping his worthless ass alive? 

Well, it doesn't really matter, considering that whether or not Jaskier goes into Brokilon and dies there, the Witcher will leave him. Jaskier really showed his true colors in Dorian and Vizima, huh? Spoke for the Witcher without discussing it first, didn't discuss it after, and then spoke for the Witcher again. _Twice._ He deceived Triss and he made Rhonwen feel bad about his hands. Hell, he's a manipulative coward; he's probably been too scared to die. He just ignored it all these years and exploited the kindness he noticed in the Witcher. 

That's so fucking horrible. Oh, gods, what has Jaskier _done_? 

It makes sense, too. The Witcher was kind and just right off the bat. It left Jaskier its last, single coin back in Posada, before Dol Blathanna and the elves. Elves that the Witcher had given all his new coin to. 

_Shit!_ So not only does he deceive people, but he's also fucking excellent at exploiting them. Because of his own weaknesses, no less. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckfuck _fuck!_

He should pay the Witcher for putting up with him—for—for whatever the fuck all this has been, for making the Witcher go through that, for taking advantage of him. May the gods strike him with lightning, Jaskier truly is a horrible piece of shit. How could he do that? To his one and only friend? 

Writing nice songs about the Witcher doesn't exactly make up for everything else that he's done. Especially since they're just an excuse. They're not the true reason, not the exploitative, coercive reason. Jaskier has been an ass towards the Witcher. Constantly harassing it and invading its personal space for his own gain… what kind of fucking bastard is he? 

Does the Witcher even know Jaskier likes him? 

Oh, he probably doesn't. After all, Jaskier is known as the Witcher's bard, not its friend. Does the Witcher know they're friends? Does the Witcher _want_ to be friends? Well, of course not, but Jaskier wants the Witcher to know that he sees it as a friend. His best friend. His _only_ friend, but that doesn't take away the sentiment. 

Jaskier _must_ tell the Witcher he likes it. It would be worthless, in the grand scheme of things, but it simply does not sit well with Jaskier to just...ignore this. To not make it known. 

How would he say it, though? That he likes the Witcher, that the Witcher is a good friend, that he's so, so sorry for everything he's done? 

Most importantly, how does he convey all of that without exploiting the Witcher even more? 

He would like to hug the Witcher when saying those things. Or put a hand on its shoulder, maybe braid its hair. Actually, it still has some of the braids Jaskier made in the crypt, kept in place by dried blood. 

The Witcher always seems at ease during baths. It's not possible to have a bath _now,_ but...Jaskier could melt some snow over the fire and then wash the Witcher's hair with a wet cloth? No, no, the heat would be gone quickly and the hair would frost over. Shitty plan. 

Jaskier doesn't even know how much time he has to come up with a plan. Usually, the Witcher would leave in the early morning. Even with Triss, Jaskier is pretty sure the Witcher would simply start going, not stopping until their dried jerky and other conserves are gone. It makes sense to go slower with Rhonwen on board, but are they going to stay in the forest all day? 

Not that it wouldn't be _nice,_ but it seems wasteful. 

Is Jaskier being ungrateful right now? Gods, add that to the list of things that are wrong with him. 

"Jaskier," rumbles a voice. Jaskier feels cold, suddenly, pulled out of a hot spring and into the cold winter air. Everything sharpens painfully. Jaskier's eyes flutter and his head snaps to the side. He sees the Witcher's stern face. 

"Jaskier, eat." 

"I'm not hungry," says Jaskier on reflex. 

He's not sure how long it has been since he last ate. Is he hungry? His stomach has been twisting itself into knots for different reasons, so he can't really tell. 

The Witcher glares at him. It grabs Jaskier by the wrist and moves it so he's holding the meat-wrapped stick to his mouth. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at the Witcher, who mimics the expression. 

Jaskier starts to protest, but something in him hisses. _'Ungrateful,'_ it says. Guilt drowns out Jaskier's frustration and defiance, and he reluctantly starts chewing on the meat. 

Triss seems to have already eaten hers and munches on some smaller slices cut in the shapes of diamonds. Rhonwen has a wide but flat piece, which she seems to be fighting with if the sheer amount of growls are any indication. She's having fun, though, and Jaskier feels at ease knowing at least one of them is happy. 

The Witcher eats thicker chunks of meat. Jaskier has a feeling they _look_ roasted, but their insides are still bloody. The Witcher does need raw meat, after all, and hasn't been able to get any for a few days. 

Now that he looks at the Witcher, its facial scars are pink and jagged but they are clean and mostly healed. Everyone had likely been patched up yesterday. Jaskier would ask Triss as to why she hadn't used the healing potion on the last of his wounds last night, but it doesn't matter. She wasn't able to save everything of her hut before it was time to go, so she’d _obviously_ want to limit wastage of resources as much as she could. 

Jaskier finds it more and more difficult to chew on the meat. He's not sure why. Regardless, he rips the meat off of the stick and gives it to the ravenous Rhonwen who devours it in seconds, and then goes back to fighting with the bigger meat. Jaskier wipes his hands on his houppelande and stands. His knees pop loudly as he does and when he stretches, he's fairly sure several spinal discs slide back into place. 

"I'll take that as a sign that it's time for a little exercise. Could also pilfer some nests, while I'm at it," says Jaskier. It's a mindless comment, but hearing himself say it, Jaskier decides it's actually a good idea. Temeria is not Cintra so it does not have the most exciting avian life. The land does, however, have an abundance of widower's eagles. Those bird bastards lay eggs in late fall and hatch mid-winter. With some luck and a keen eye, Jaskier should be able to find a couple of nests and get their eggs. 

They're not the tastiest of foods, but the meat will probably taste better with them. Or, well, just _taste._ Jaskier can't say he actually got a flavor out of what he's eaten. Even the ashmarrow was tasteless, which is highly unusual as it gives most foods a coal-like tang. Did the Witcher misidentify the tree? 

"Could you get some feathers, too, if you find any?" Triss asks. 

"Does it matter which color I get?" 

"Not really, they all have the same effect in potions." 

"I'll see if I can get some," says Jaskier. Considering the commonality of the widower's eagle, Jaskier hadn't expected it to be a potion ingredient. Although, since the average garden flower can be used to make elixirs and sword oils, he shouldn't be surprised. 

Jaskier goes into the woods and rather than feeling alone and swarmed by the mists in his mind, he feels calmer. A soft breeze ruffles his hair and caresses his skin. Contradictorily enough, the wind grounds him. Slowly washes away the fog. Jaskier walks on with a new pep in his step. 

The fresh snow reaches halfway up his heel. It's blindingly white. 

Ashmarrows grow aplenty in this forest. They fit in well with their bone-white, thin, flaky bark. There are no leaves; the canopy was barren. Sunlight casts many patterns onto the forest floor. They're intricate and abstract, and Jaskier would try to find recognizable shapes in the shadows if he wasn't searching for nests. 

Technically, it's easy to find the nests themselves. After all, widower's eagles are abundant in Temeria. It's the fact that few are unprotected. The black birds glare at him with their white eyes and they snap their grey beaks. Some even puff up and walk out of their nests, giving Jaskier a good glimpse at their thick, greying legs speckled with white, and their _powerful_ talons. 

Up in the trees, they don't seem all that massive, but if they were to come closer, their bodies would be as big as Jaskier's torso. This realization spurs Jaskier into gripping the handle of his dagger. 

It takes a relatively short time to find an empty nest. When Jaskier climbs to it, he finds five eggs and takes two, as well as grabbing some black and gray feathers that were stuffed between the nest's twigs. After that, it becomes easier and easier to find empty nests and their speckled gray eggs. On his third nest, with five eggs safely pocketed away, he hears crunching below. 

Jaskier turns. He sees a shadowy figure clad in a hood and cloak. It walks together with a smaller figure, which darts around wildly, wearing a dark shirt and a sea-green scarf fashioned into a hood. Jaskier smiles to himself. Did the Witcher get worried? Or did Rhonwen want to go on a walk and they ended up following his tracks? Regardless, it would be rude not to greet them. Jaskier makes his way down the tree. 

With his feet almost on the ground, a heavy weight suddenly scrambles up his legs and back as Rhonwen's pale fists latch onto the front of his houppelande. She makes a trilling noise into his ear. 

"Hello to you too, princess," says Jaskier. He eventually reaches the ground again. Their landing is quite undignified and graceless, but he doesn't twist his ankles or break his toes, so he counts it as a success. He turns to the Witcher and Rhonwen jumps off as she runs up a different tree, climbing easily to the top. Jaskier is...mostly impressed, but also vaguely concerned. 

"Is she going to be okay up there?" he asks. The Witcher hums positively and Jaskier nods to himself. They both stare as Rhonwen finds a nest and roars victoriously, lifting the whole thing into the air. She sets it back down, less than gentle, and grabs an egg in each hand. Her descent off the tree is quick—which is to say, used to climbing pillars as she is, Rhonwen _jumps._

Jaskier's heart soars up his throat and lodges itself at the back of his mouth. He chokes on a scream. Darkness flashes in front of his eyes as the Witcher speeds forward. Rhonwen falls into its outstretched arms with a joyous screech. The Witcher crouches to distribute the fall's impact—and it must have been greater than what the Witcher prepared itself for, or the elixirs it took were not enough to heal it, because the Witcher _falls._ It stumbles and tries to regain balance, but eventually, it lands on its back with a groan. 

Rhonwen tumbles out of its hands and lands face-first in the snow, her stomach crushing the Witcher's nose. 

Jaskier, frozen still with his mouth agape, looks at the scene with far too many emotions fighting inside him. Rhonwen and the Witcher lay there for a second. Then Rhonwen arches up, face, scarf, and arms caked in snow as she holds up two, somehow still whole eggs. The Witcher grumbles unappreciatively into her stomach. 

Amusement wins, and Jaskier bends over with laughter as the Witcher lifts Rhonwen off of his face and rearranges himself to stand. The Witcher doesn't let go of Rhonwen, which turns the simple task into a hassle. The Witcher comes close to falling over more times than Jaskier can count at the moment. The Witcher turns his head to give Jaskier an angry look. 

He stumbles towards and into the Witcher, almost knocking him off balance again. Jaskier tries to help the Witcher get up, he really does, but the Witcher is a heavy one, made out of dense muscles and hefty bones. Jaskier squeals as his feet glide on the snow and he tumbles back, bringing the Witcher on top of himself. 

Rhonwen, still held high by the Witcher, trills loudly. A massive grin splits her small face as she bares her little square teeth. 

The Witcher doesn't actually seem that heavy, though perhaps that's because it is only his head and shoulders that rest on Jaskier. He growls, but Jaskier is accustomed to the man's hums, grunts, and grumbles, and he knows very well that this one is nowhere near _angry._

Jaskier sits up and takes Rhonwen from the Witcher, holding her aloft as he stands. The Witcher then takes her back, sits her on his hip, and lifts Jaskier by his houppelande. Jaskier dusts himself off though he’s already wet, much to his chagrin. He then dusts off the Witcher and Rhonwen and checks if his eggs survived. Besides some slight cracks on two of them, they were actually doing pretty well. 

The Witcher sets Rhonwen on the ground. She takes her usual crabby stance and proudly presents the eggs she holds. Jaskier makes a big show of taking them from her and bows when he puts them into the pockets, which she immediately mirrors. It looks very strange, especially since her feet slowly slide across the floor and she almost does a split. 

Jaskier puts his foot beside one of hers and he sends the Witcher an expectant glance. The Witcher grumbles but puts his foot beside Rhonwen's, and they slowly slide her legs back together. Rhonwen trills and fights against them. The Witcher's foot does not budge, but Jaskier is having issues and his battle against Rhonwen is embarrassingly even. In a last-ditch effort to take the high ground, Jaskier skips back and Rhonwen's foot shoots out. She squawks and falls to the ground in a split. 

It doesn't seem to affect her at all. Rhonwen stays as she had landed and glares at Jaskier, red-cheeked and with pursed lips. Jaskier huffs a little laugh. Rhonwen follows suit, letting out a giggle-like trill. The Witcher hums in amused frustration and rolls his eyes hard enough that his head follows the motion. He lifts Rhonwen to make her stand normally and he cradles her snow-caked hands, puffing hot breath onto them. Rhonwen smiles and slams her hands into the Witcher's mouth, chasing the heat. 

_Fuck._ Geralt would make such a good father. It's so adorable. 

"I want some more eggs, get them to a dozen," says Jaskier softly, his voice strangely deep. "And get some more feathers for Triss before we leave. When do we do that, actually?" 

Geralt huffs the last warmth at Rhonwen's hands before he straightens and Rhonwen runs off to circle the trees. She forgoes climbing, fortunately. 

"Tomorrow morning," says Geralt. 

"Why not today?" Jaskier asks, setting a sedate pace onwards through the woods, circling around the camp. 

"Roach shouldn't travel this much in winter. Had to adjust some plans and make arrangements, but everything is in order now." 

"And will you tell me what is in order?" Jaskier bumps his shoulder into Geralt's. The Witcher hums a non-answer. 

"Ugh, fine, keep your machinations to yourself. But tomorrow you better explain!" 

With Geralt and Rhonwen, Jaskier doesn't do any more climbing and he admires the pretty shadows on the forest floor freely. Geralt, with his enhanced senses, is able to scent out where there are nests and can hear whether they are protected. Rhonwen does the actual gathering and always insists on jumping from the trees into Geralt's arms instead of climbing back down. Geralt gets better at catching her, no longer losing his balance. 

They don't stop even when they get a dozen eggs, or when they make it up to eighteen. All because Rhonwen keeps protesting and refuses to get off of whatever tree she's climbed when Jaskier and Geralt try to go back to camp. They only leave when Rhonwen sees how full of eggs and feathers Jaskier's pockets are. 

Back at the camp, Triss had already begun making food for dinner, even though they just had lunch. 

"Where did you get the potatoes from?" Jaskier asks, looking into the meager little pot full of mashed potatoes, which Jaskier knows he has complained about at some point. 

"I have my secrets," says Triss and takes the eggs from Jaskier. She cracks them into the pot. Jaskier never had done _that_ before, but he can't imagine it would taste bad. 

He busies himself with warming up the meat without turning it to coal. Rhonwen is off to the side with Roach, testing Geralt's patience and Roach's finite good will. 

Once dinner is pretty much ready and stuffed in the pot in a strange mix of eggs, potatoes, and meat scraps, they leave it above the fire to keep it warm and wait for Rhonwen to get hungry. Triss pockets a few of the feathers Jaskier has on him but leaves most untouched. Instead, she uses them to show Jaskier how to make fancy little bracelets. 

Jaskier lays claim on all the black feathers and turns them into a very ugly macrame-like decoration, which he very melodramatically offers to Geralt. Rhonwen almost eats the thing, which caused a rush of panic, but the ugly bracelet survives the ordeal and finds its way onto Geralt's wrist. Then, they eat and prepare for tomorrow's journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait with the chapter! Got sucked into The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. Lambert has become a new love of mine


	13. follow the trees, child, and may they show you the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Uhh body horror (insects, breakage, blood), nightmares, suicidal thoughts/ideation, minor (??) dissociation, bare minimum discussion/mention of (ritualistic?) rape.
> 
> Triggers are hard. If you notice an untagged trigger _anywhere_ in the fic that should be mentioned (or that you personally want tagged) please tell me! If you don’t want to come out and say it in the comments, you can send an ask at maarchi.tumblr.com :)
> 
> Idk what the word count will be after this, but this chapter is roughly 7.5k so the fic word.c. better not be 69k. If this happens I will cry.

When Rhonwen yawns, her jaw unhinges like a snake's. The skin on her cheeks stretches thin and Jaskier gets an up-and-close look at her wolfish teeth. She closes her mouth with an audible _pop_. She makes an effort to stay upright but her battle with exhaustion is a losing one. Triss helps her scrape up the last of the potato mush and Rhonwen absentmindedly finishes her supper, though her head bobs and eyes flutter. 

"I guess she won't need to be _Somne'_ d, huh?" Jaskier smiles, taking the empty pot and wooden spoon from Triss. He throws two handfuls of snow into the pot and puts the dented cover on it. 

"Would be for the best if she was magically put to sleep," Geralt says, returning from Roach's side where he had performed his nightly ritual of brushing, feeding, and conversing with her. "We can't risk her waking up feral." 

"Right," Jaskier mutters. It's so easy to forget that while Rhonwen is...herself, she doesn't _naturally_ act as calm as she does now. A glimpse of her animal self had appeared when Geralt came back with the doe—calming down only after Geralt’s Axii. Jaskier shuddered; it should not be forgotten that Rhonwen had been a striga before she had been human. 

"Well, there's nothing more to it," says Triss, lifting Rhonwen, whose little fists immediately grasp her jacket. She's asleep before Triss fully straightens. The Witch comes close, angling the child towards Geralt. "Shall you do the honors?" 

Geralt casts _Somne_ with a flick of his wrist. The skin on Triss' neck, where Rhonwen had tucked her head, changes hue— turning somewhat darker and redder. 

Jaskier grimaces and sucks in a breath. 

" _Oof!_ Does that hurt?" he asks, pointing his finger at the reddened patch of skin. Triss hasn't shown any particular reaction, despite being so harshly affected in Old Vizima. Although to be fair, that magic was older, more powerful, and strengthened by Rhonwen's continued presence. 

"A little," says Triss with a shrug. She shakes some snow out of her hair with her hand. "So long as Geralt does not direct it at me, it's not so bad. Unless anyone minds, I'd like to take an early night?" 

"If you manage to fall asleep with the sun still up…" Jaskier trails off as he motions to the sky. It is certainly darker now than at midday, but nighttime would not fall for at least an hour. The sun still bathes everything in orange light, peeking shyly above the horizon of treetops. Snow glitters as if encrusted with zircons. Every orange snowflake casts deep indigo shadows. The sky itself is a grayish blue. Stringy clouds bear colors of fairy fire. The bark of the birches and ashmarrows turns a lively amber-brown but the washed away green tarp of the tent seems darker and grayer than usual. Jaskier knows firsthand from his short spoon-searching trip into it that it's still too bright to sleep inside. 

Triss smirks at him with raised brows and huffs a laugh. 

" _Dearme,_ " bids Triss in Elder. She swiftly disappears into the tent, her departure followed by a shaky yawn. 

" _Mellyse i'sogne,_ " answers Jaskier. Geralt says nothing, for which Jaskier jabs him in the ribs. "Manners, Geralt!" 

Geralt grumbles petulantly but returns the goodnight wishes. Jaskier hangs the pot with the two handfuls of snow over the fire and cleans the spoon with the snow, drying it with his houppelande's sleeve. Geralt, meanwhile, starts to clean the camp. He gathers up all of the furs but the one Jaskier seated himself on and hangs them to dry on a previously made rack. It's shaky but well built enough that it withstands the weight. 

Now that he has a few hours to think...how does one go about confessing their friendship? After five years of it, no less? 

All of the things he can think of doing would take days to finalize or are out of season. Geralt has a weakness for milk, especially if from a goat, but there are no farms around. Hell, even if there were, Jaskier doubts he'd find a suckling. It's not like he's an expert on this matter, but he's fairly sure goats aren't widower's eagles and prefer grassy climates for their young—more food and all that. 

And even if he did get the milk, that would in general just be _nice._ It wouldn't exactly make Jaskier's intentions clear. He could be forward and say to Geralt's face directly that he's Jaskier's best friend. That could potentially sour the milk, though… 

Considering Geralt's affection for Roach and her loyalty to him—barring moments of panic during certain encounters, where she bucks him off—Jaskeir could get a gift for Roach. Geralt would appreciate anything that Roach enjoys. It's part of why he likes goat's milk so much. _Roach_ will do anything for goat's milk. 

It's not exactly good for her, as Geralt had told him. Many animals lose the ability to properly digest milk when they are adults, horses among them. That doesn't stop Geralt or Jaskier from giving Roach a little bit of milk every now and then as a treat. Jaskier particularly likes to give it to her, seeing as it puts her in a good mood and she'll neigh and stomp along to his songs. Geralt had banned him from giving Roach any snacks besides fruits, vegetables, and sugar cubes lest Geralt was around. 

Well, Geralt said no snacks at all but Jaskier _knows_ the Witcher had seen him feed Roach an apple— and there had never been any retribution for that. 

So. 

But...he completely lost his train of thought. What was it? Why did he start thinking about goats? 

Oh, right. A present for Geralt. 

Though, if he spends so much time thinking about what to give to Geralt, he won't have time to write anything. And write he must! So Geralt doesn't think he's responsible for an unwanted death. He could also write a will, of sorts. Geralt would be free to do whatever he wants so it's not like Jaskier would be _forcing_ Geralt to carry it out and tie loose ends for him. 

At the same time, he _would_ be asking Geralt to be his post-humous errand boy. If they're acts of kindness, however, Geralt would probably _want_ to do them. He has such a golden heart; perhaps even more golden than his eyes. 

Jaskier fishes out his charcoal pencil and journal. In the waning sunlight, he can hear Geralt brush the snow out of their furs. Nothing else disturbs the evening quiet. Jaskier opens his journal to a random blank, dirty page, and starts scribbling down ideas. 

Firstly, there was the matter of Filavandrel's lute. The instrument was ultimately useless to Geralt. Sure, it might be something to remember Jaskier by, but let's be realistic—Jaskier had been nothing but an ass towards him. A manipulative, exploitative ass constantly abusing the allowances Geralt would make for him. Geralt had no respite from Jaskier. _Why_ would he want to remember him? 

So yeah, the lute has to go. Ideally, it should be given back to the elves of Dol Blathanna. It won't be very helpful to anyone, though. But if it gets a nice little paint job to hide some scratches, and its strings get replaced...and, if Geralt takes to Oxenfurt and sells it as his victorious spoils from Dol Blathanna, scholars and historians will be throwing themselves at it. Especially if he sucks it up and plays into _Toss A Coin_ 's popularity. 

The money...well, it's not like Filavandrel's people would be able to use it. Wherever they'd go, they'd be cast away. Now, what they really needed was fertile soil, animals, and grain to make bread, at least. Geralt could buy some manuals about husbandry, beekeeping, and maybe even rituals. 

If both Ostrit and Foltest could find a way to cast a love curse via ritual, then there must be a way to cast blessings, too. The elves may have forgotten their magic, but they have blood. They could use rituals if what Triss said is right—and it should be, all things considered. 

They have the Pontar at their feet, too. Geralt could do some petty thievery of fishing equipment... 

That feels more like a gift to the elves than Geralt, though. It was still a good idea, so Jaskier jots the details down onto a few pages and carefully rips them out. He stuffs them in a pocket. 

New blank page. What to write on this one? 

Jaskier could go ahead and do a big declaration: thank Geralt, say outright how much Geralt means to him. Maybe he could put it in rhyme? No, no. Geralt doesn't enjoy such prose. Though he enjoys slower musical performances, he is not a fan of the bawdier tavern crowd-pleasers. 

Oh, Jaskier is going to die. What does it matter if he makes a mistake in baring his heart to Geralt? He won't be there to be rejected, or punched in the gut, or abandoned! Geralt will get a pitiful laugh out of it, remember Jaskier with some irritation and relief for his being gone, and get on with his life not thinking about Jaskier. Jaskier will be dead dead _dead._

So, wonderful! Everyone's a winner. 

Jaskier doesn't bother with rewriting the entire thing when he makes a mistake, even though he wants to. He only has so much time; he simply crosses out the words he writes incorrectly and rambles on. After all, Geralt knows him. There's no need to keep up pretenses. Jaskier is an idiot who writes wrong, comes up with shit rhymes, and is horrifically good at deceiving kind folk into believing he's good at his job. 

Or, well, _'good'_ at all. It's not very nice of him, but it shall end tomorrow or the day after—whenever they reach Brokilon. He must only go in and explain the situation to the dryads. They'll take Rhonwen and Jaskier will ask to see how she becomes one of them because he's selfish and wants peace of mind before his death, and this will give him just enough of it. And then, when Rhonwen forgets him and Geralt has left him, Jaskier will ask the dryads to kill him and they _will._

He still needs to do something _for_ Geralt, though. This declaration is to Geralt and for Jaskier's peace of mind. The plan to help the elves is a nonsensical do-good that Geralt doesn't have to follow but probably will because he's a good man. Jaskier will probably come up with many other little things as they travel to Brokilon—to the dryads, to Jaskier's final day—but there's no guarantee any of these ideas will fit Geralt or the timeframe. 

Fuck, if Jaskier had known about this a week ago, he'd make preparations! He'd brew potions for Geralt so he wouldn't be weighed down by Jaskier against the striga. He'd skip the crypt while exploring and take them straight to Ostrit's office. Hell, Jaskier would poison or stab both Ostrit and Foltest himself for the hell they've put Adda and Rhonwen through. But most importantly, he'd have figured out a gift for Geralt that truly encompassed Jaskier's affection for him. 

Too late for that now. 

It's late now, and the sky is starlit and dark. Jaskier still hasn't come up with something to give Geralt. 

What does Geralt like? Besides baths, Roach, and potion ingredients; besides the decorated leathers he claims to dislike but steals from Jaskier's stashes anyways; besides honeycakes, fruity pies, mashed potatoes with milk, and raw livers and hearts; besides baths, good alcohol, and getting his hair delicately washed with scented oils that Jaskier's nose can't detect, but which smell like rich bouquets to Geralt. 

_"Shut up, bard," says Geralt of the past, a fire flickering between him and Jaskier._

_"Shut up, bard," says Geralt of the past, nudging Jaskier's shoulder with his foot as the Witcher sits on Roach, careful enough not to break Jaskier's shoulder but angry enough to make the pain last._

_"Shut up, bard," says Geralt of the past, jabbing his fingers into Jaskier's stomach as the striga whines in the dark of a hallway._

_Swearing "I shall not touch the lute under any circumstance"— a useless bargain, but accepted without hesitation._

These moments, and many more like them, float to the surface of Jaskier's mind. 

It's _genius!_ Jaskier already can't use the lute—that's half his work done. Now he just has to keep quiet and let Geralt enjoy some silence. Should he start tomorrow or today? To what degree should he be quiet? 

It can't be obtrusive quiet. That would be rude to speak in clipped tones and offer monosyllabic answers when he has been doing the opposite; Geralt gets away with it because that's expected of him. If Jaskier does it, Geralt might think Jaskier's mad when he isn't! 

How does one go about being Jaskier _and_ being quiet? 

Jaskier's never thought this would be a conundrum awaiting him. After all, he would be a performer in life, playing for crowds and pleasing the people; he would be quiet when he finally died. Jaskier is silent with himself, of course, when alone and isolated, but that doesn't much feel like being alive. 

Maybe it's for the best to leave this issue for future Jaskier. Overplanning might make the silence too stiff, too monotonous, and too perfunctory—Geralt might catch onto his plans by the forced nature of his mask. Improvisation, however, leaves plenty of room for on the fly adjustments! It also doesn't make Jaskier's skin crawl with guilt and fear for not sticking to the plan. 

"What are you smiling about?" asks Geralt, appearing out of thin air. Jaskier feels strangely far away, even as what he rationally understands to be his head turns to face Geralt. 

When did Jaskier manage to sink so deep into the murky waters? 

This loss of control feels different—gradual and gentle. Jaskier hadn't noticed, didn't understand what the constellations in the skies meant. He forgot about it—the passage of time. And _oh_ , how much of it had passed. The mist had slowly engulfed him, left him floating on the surface, and then pushed him deep into the waters. 

The abyss is comforting, now. It embraces him. 

"Nothing," he hears maybe-his-voice say. 

Geralt grunts skeptically and maybe-Jaskier's-voice mimics his non-answer of a hum from earlier, when they gathered eggs and feathers. A vindictive little shadow passes through Jaskier in the water. He cannot feel it, but it throws a thought at him anyway. One that sours Jaskier's drift in the water's currents. 

Maybe-Jaskier's-hands snap his journal shut and maybe-Jaskier's-mouth stretches in a yawn. Jaskier feels nothing even as he hears maybe-his-body's thoughts—tired, exhausted, and sad about the heaviness that settled into maybe-his-bones. 

"Gods, maybe the girls had a point about an early night," maybe-his-voice says. Maybe-his-body stands and looks around. The camp is much, much bigger than Jaskier remembers it. The body doesn't agree—doesn't notice. It doesn't think about the blurry trees, about the ebb and flow of the earth, or the sudden distance. The body thinks everything is normal, but Jaskier doesn't see it so and it strikes fear into him. 

His body moves, but not Jaskier. Not to the surface of the waters, not away from this dark snake that coils around him. It hisses so deeply that the sound reverberates in Jaskier's soul. Maybe not _in._ Maybe _against_ his soul, against his self, his mind. It's a terrifying, quaking thing, and it binds Jaskier in place. 

Like a black cat in a bag taking its first watery breath. 

Nothing is familiar and everything is different kinds of twisted. 

But this body—the one he's stuck following, the one which sends stinging sensations and weary thoughts at him— feels fine. It throws some nonsense words at Geralt, who notices nothing wrong with the warbled sounds or the endless path to the tent. Suddenly the body is in deep, deep darkness, not illuminated even by the moon or stars. 

Like in the ruins of Old Vizima, this body's eyes adjust quickly. After a stumbling search through the furs and bags, this body's arms have several layers worth of numbing cream seeping through its skin. 

Geralt comes in gracefully through the front flaps of the tent soon after. Or maybe long after? The cream has, after all, absorbed itself into prison-body's skin by that point. 

Jaskier doesn't know. The prison-mind doesn't care. Instead, it focuses on removing its outer layers so as to not disturb the sleeping ladies. Rhonwen has taken on a strange sleeping pose—completely stretched out on her back, arms raised far above her head, hands clutching at each other, and her too-long boney legs crossed at the ankles. Triss’ hair is completely fluffed out, which gives her a fun silhouette under the flatter cottons and furs. 

The prison-body curls closer to them. It slowly hides Rhonwen's arms under the blankets, and fearing that they'll be sore, uncrosses her ankles through the mass of furs that covers her. 

Something happens between that and the point at which he is almost unconscious, but he's not quite sure what. The prison-body seems to teleport under the covers. There's something hot pressed against its back and over its shoulder, warming its arm. The prison-mind identifies the 'something' as a 'someone'. Geralt, specifically. The prison-body seems content. 

Jaskier is less so. But he has no choice but to sleep as the prison-mind shuts off to the rhythmic beat of Geralt's slow heartbeat against the prison-body's back. 

* * *

Jaskier wakes to a world that is dark and dreary. Dense fog bites at his eyes. Barbed silhouettes dance around him. They jump and spin in graceless pirouettes, and every move gives Jaskier a better look at their forms. Tall, emaciated with pronounced bones, and butcher-knife fingers, long and sharp. Like skeletons made out of wire with clusters of flesh plastered on. 

_Everywhere._

They are everywhere; On the ground and in the air, in the front and in the back. 

Jaskier is not one. Not singular. He is two, _divided,_ a shadow, one of the silhouettes attached to the feet of a bug-eyed boy—a _literally_ bug-eyed boy. 

They aren't maggots this time. Jaskier wasn't sure what they are, but he feels them squirm in his sockets and feels them fall into his skull. He hears their moist bodies squelch and rub against each other. The bug-eyed body is not Jaskier's to control, to _be_ , but it is his to _experience._

It cannot move on its own, nor can Jaskier move it. The uncontrollable shadow puppeteers it instead. 

The shadow presses at the bug-eyed child and its leg doesn't move right. No, as if made of wet clay, the skin, flesh, bone distort in malleable chunks. The surface breaks, and Jaskier sees through the shadow's eyes rapid-fire images of red clay streaming down the leg in fat lumps. Then, the shadow pushes the foot forward. The blood disappears in a flash, and the leg, misshapen and twisted but intact, is further forward than it had been moments ago. 

_It hurts._

The bug-eyed boy does not cry out, nor does he flinch, wince, whine, or even blink. His eyes and lids are gone, dark blood streams down his face, and his gaped mouth oozes a viscous, black liquid. 

Jaskier screams and _screams_ and the world is quiet. 

The shadow moves the boy's body relentlessly. Every nerve in the body cries out in pain. _'This,'_ Jaskier thinks, _'is like burning alive without the smoke to choke you first.'_

It feels like the late pain of the burn on his arm and on his hand. 

And it was everywhere. 

_Everywhere_ on a body small and frail. A body made of soft clay, pushed around by a shadow that looks like an elongated skeleton, with bones bulging against the stretched-thin skin. The bug-eyed boy loses shape with every new contortion and distortion. Every jerk forward, every mousey step closer to the shadow's final destination mixes the colors of the bug-eyed clay boy together. 

Tan skin turns orange turns red turns ashen. The linen braies become saturated with red blood and the blue of the boy's blouse. The shadow twists the boy's body around at the stomach. The head faces the same way as it has been facing this entire nightmare, but Jaskier could _see_ the boy's belly rip itself open when the skin stretched too far. Thick black liquid gushed out in flashing lumps. 

Gush, stop. Gush, stop. A black lump hits the ground. Impact, stop, spray, stop. 

The blackness spreads throughout the boy. Dyes him dark like the silhouettes. He grows taller, thinner, spindlier, with bones peeking out like wires wrapped around themselves. His body starts to look like the shadow which moves it. The shadow which shapes it. 

The bug-eyed boy is no longer a boy. It is almost a spitting image of the shadow—except he's physical and solid, not a dark silhouette cast through the fog. 

He joins the ranks soon enough. 

Chunk after chunk of the once-boy crumbles to dark dust. They crash against the floor and Jaskier screeches and whines without a mouth, without lungs, and without a throat. The shadow pushes at the once-boy faster, trying to reach its goal before the once-boy disappears. 

_'Don't be like all the other ones,'_ thinks the shadow. Jaskier sobs at the rage in its nonexistent voice. 

The once-boy crumbles to nothingness and the shadow roars. Jaskier is body-less and can hear only the shadow's thoughts, see only through its eyes, and the rage that burns in the shadow brings him to tears. He cries and sobs and weeps and trembles. The shadow turns around and walks to a spot where there is less fog. It digs its knifelike fingers into the dirt, suddenly solid. The once-boy, now one of the many silhouettes, passes through the shadow and joins in the wild dance of the others. 

Jaskier is pulled into a new body. The body is tugged up, up, up, out of the earth, and it is clay, like the body before it. It is a different boy, scrawny and with filthy ginger hair. The shadows twist its leg forward and the torture repeats itself. 

The body doesn't last long. 

The shadow digs a new one. 

It doesn't last long. 

And so comes a new one, and another, and another, and another. Every body is infested with squirming worms, maggots, eels, and leeches. 

Jaskier hides far away. Locks himself into his mind, his soul, the deep nothingness within himself, and searches for whatever comfort he can. 

* * *

Jaskier escapes the tortures of earth, shadow, and clay. He doesn't know _how._ He simply wakes in the deep waters again, sunk but sinking. Legs of _this_ body move of their own volition and they don't break, twist, bleed. The thoughts of _this_ mind whirl in hurricanes but they do not rage at Jaskier. Even in their chaos, they are a respite. 

There's a little white-haired girl making sounds by his side, walking in a crabby stance and wearing a sea-green scarf. Her big, brown eyes are not full of bugs but they are bug-like—bulging out of her skull and whipping around. The new prison-body is bracketed by a brown-skinned lady in familiar clothing, and a dark figure that firmly grips a chestnut mare's reins. 

Rhonwen. 

Triss. 

Geralt. 

Roach. 

Jaskier is awake. He had gone to sleep last night, fallen unconscious, and dreamt. Now he is _awake._

Right. 

Rhonwen smacks his thigh, expectant. Jaskier does not know what she wants. The prison-body does, though, for it has been awake longer than Jaskier. 

"Oh, truly?" the prison-body gasps theatrically, like an indulgent teacher. "I never would have thought to make the frog attack the scorpion! Please do tell us what inspired you to add such a twist?" 

Rhonwen skips, chirps, and flaps her arms. She babbles nonsense again. Triss giggles into her hand and Geralt, for whom Jaskier was supposed to be silent, sighs deeply. 

Jaskier is an intruder. 

But at least he's silent like he vowed to be, is he not? It is not he who speaks—not he who smiles, who raptly listens to Rhonwen's noises and then speaks for her as if he knew or understood anything. As if she was Geralt in Dorian, in the mines, or in front of Foltest. 

It is the prison-body that speaks, not Jaskier. Jaskier is a captive, an intruder, a voyeur without the choice of looking away. 

Like the bug-eyed boy, the prison-body is not his to control. To _be._

They travel by the edge of the river, forest far behind them as they head closer towards the coast. There is a bridge in the far distance, a long, arched thing. The red paint has chipped to reveal soggy, rotten wood and moss. 

The prison-mind grows tenser with every step closer to the bridge. Triss' shoulders droop, tiredness slowing her down. Geralt doesn't comment and neither does the prison-body, but they match their speed to the Witch. She doesn't notice, but Jaskier thinks he notices. 

"It's a long way to Oxenfurt from here, isn't it?" Triss says while pulling at her borrowed doublet. 

"A day or two," answers the prison-body. It angles its head sideways, looking at Triss curiously. "Is that where you live?" 

"Oh, I wish," Triss says. Her shoulders lower further and she kicks out a foot in tired resignation. "Vizima was my first major assignment. They said if I did well, they'd fund me in Oxenfurt. If not...well, I'll find somewhere else. I have enough coin on me to tide me over until I find a village to settle at." 

"Sorry," the prison-body says reflexively. 

Then Jaskier almost screeches as he feels himself grow heavier—as if swimming up a current and fighting a gust of wind—and then he has limbs he doesn't know what to do with and almost faceplants into the road. Only _almost_ because Geralt is used to this by now and catches Jaskier by the scruff. The collar of Jaskier's houppelande and doublet chokes him. His mobility faculties come back on and Jaskier scrambles to walk on his own two feet. 

Triss fights against her own amusement, probably thinking it rude. Rhonwen has no such stipulations and trills through an open-mouthed grin. 

Jaskier straightens out and brushes himself off, faux-casual. It's...not all that nice to have a body, again. It feels strange and heavy; it will require a lot of upkeep. The control, however, is a grounding feeling. It helps Jaskier feel _real,_ like he actually belongs where he is. 

"I would be asking the ground for apologies if I thought it'd respond," says Jaskier with a cocksure smile, hoping Triss will let her guard down. It works wonderfully. The Witch's cheeks dimple as she muffles her giggling with her fist. 

"Don't bring the ground into it. You tripped over your own two legs," grumbles Geralt. Jaskier swivels to look at him, hand on his heart and gasping. Geralt looks forward, completely ignoring Jaskier, but there's a force to his frown and Jaskier can tell he's not as calm as he pretends. 

"I did not!" screeches Jaskier, voice high-pitched. He wiggles a finger at Geralt and feels bold enough to jab him in the shoulder. He hits a pauldron hidden by the cloak, but the fact it is _Jaskier_ who moved the finger makes the pain bittersweet. "Lies and slander! I have never done such a thing. How dare you even insinuate that? Rhonwen, avenge me!" 

Jaskier stomps his foot to accentuate the order. Rhonwen must have learned what name they have given her, or she's ready for a fight at all times because she jumps with a whoop where she stands and launches herself at Geralt. 

She wraps long arms around Geralt's neck before the Witcher has time to respond. Her momentum swings her in an arc. She kicks up her feet, only narrowly missing Roach. Geralt is ripped off balance. The leg on Jaskier's side lifts and kicks, trying to bring himself to a steady stance once again. Rhonwen, meanwhile, squawks victoriously as she flies over the reins and Geralt's other arm, landing on Geralt's back. Geralt's knees bend to accommodate the weight and he bends forward. Which does not work out well for him, for it gives Rhonwen the opportunity to plant her legs firmly on his back and _push._

Her hands lose their grip on Geralt's neck, sliding forward so her forehead collides with Geralt's nape. Rhonwen tightens her hold on him. Her kicking legs vault over Geralt's shoulder and head, and Rhonwen ends up in a headstand-chokehold position on Geralt. Her back faces the ground and her neck is at a very awkward angle, but she doesn't seem to have an issue with it. 

In fact, if that little _'eheheh'_ is anything to go by, Rhonwen is very proud of herself. 

Jaskier barks a laugh before smothering it with his hand. Geralt lowers himself to a knee, trying to balance everything out. Jaskier should probably help him out, take Rhonwen off or something, but Geralt is a big Witcher and if he can deal with manticores then he can deal with tiny ruffians. 

Triss steps up beside Jaskier, admiring the Witcher and feral child. 

"Would you like a hand?" she asks. Geralt growls and Rhonwen squeals. 

"Seems they've got everything under control," Jaskier says, leaning in towards Triss. She purses her lips with a smile. 

Geralt does Rhonwen's signature crabby stance and starts to straighten with Rhonwen precariously wiggling in the air. She is a very acrobatic child, which is to be expected, but Jaskier hadn't anticipated such circus-worthy feats from her. She was also making a _lot_ of noise. Jaskier would be happier about it if not for yesterday's resolution. 

As a parting ''gift'', Jaskier had written the notes and vowed himself to improvised silence; this isn't very silent, but it's also not Jaskier. Rhonwen is very receptive to Jaskier, if his memory doesn't fail him, and it was Jaskier that actually set her on Geralt. 

Not only is this not ideal volume-wise, but Rhonwen is clinging to Geralt because Jaskier told her to. He commanded her as though she was a dog and she _listened_. Now, Geralt is less a Witcher and more a circus harlequin—and while Triss and Jaskier don't mean any offense with their laughter, and Geralt could just take Rhonwen off of him if he was _that_ bothered, Jaskier just… 

He can't quite believe that what he sees and Geralt's happiness can coexist. 

Jaskier's amusement and joy at his newfound control get drowned out by a sudden deluge of guilt and anxiety. His heart constricts and his stomach twists. How does he salvage the situation? Is there anything left to salvage? 

Triss’ arm suddenly weaves itself around his. He instinctively raises and bends it, muscle memory guiding him to the appropriate gentlemanly stance. Triss, who likely was taught noble mannerisms and customs whilst studying under her mentor, delicately holds onto his offered arm. She curtsies at Geralt, Rhonwen, and the _very-done-with-this_ looking Roach. 

"If Master Witcher does not require assistance, I believe we may continue our journey," she says. 

Triss gently tugs Jaskier away. He follows her even though he fears it is a mistake. He is leaving Geralt alone with Rhonwen, whom Jaskier feels responsible for, and who Jaskier had accidentally used to punish Geralt for a joke. Does Geralt see this as punishment? _Is_ it a punishment? Jaskier does not know but he cannot imagine Geralt is very happy about this, especially being left with her. Jaskier could at least call Rhonwen off. 

Except, Jaskier is horrible; a failure at everything and anything, parting gifts included, so he keeps quiet and instead turns to Triss. She speaks again—in somber tones this time. Her voice is stern and motherly, though Jaskier doubts she is much older than him. 

"Brokilon is dangerous, you know," she says, walking slowly towards the chipped red bridge. "Dryads are not fae and Brokilon is no _Tir nea Noghe,_ but they are similar enough. You'll walk in and leave the same day, but you'll find whole seasons have passed. You'll walk in one day, leave after what you _think_ is a month, and realize you've only been gone for a second." 

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Jaskier says. And really, it won't—he's going in to die, after all. Once Rhonwen is one of them, Jaskier will ask to be murdered or he'll do something—by accident or not—that will have him killed, and everything will be fine. 

"Just because Geralt said he'll get you out doesn't mean you shouldn't be vigilant, Jaskier," Triss warns. 

And— _hold up a second._

Geralt did what? 

It's not quite midday, but close enough, and they've been traveling since early morning; probably for two hours after the sun breached the horizon. And in that time, the hours when Jaskier was in that nightmare, not in control, _drowning_ —that's when Geralt decided to reveal his master plan? Which includes coming back for Jaskier? Coming to Brokilon, a dangerous place with grudges against Witchers, to get _Jaskier_ out? 

Jaskier knows Geralt is a self-sacrificing idiot, but this is a bit too much. 

There's a split second where Jaskier wants to ask—wants to come right out and ask Triss what the _fuck_ she's talking about, what plans Geralt has told them, and what Jaskier had missed. 

But...that'd be weird and he'd sound crazy. If Triss or Geralt find out he's crazy, they'll—do something. Jaskier isn't sure what he expects, but he can't imagine it's good. 

For sure there'd be pity and disgust. 

Maybe shock, that he's been leading them on. 

Maybe hatred. 

Maybe they'd think he can't be trusted and can't make decisions for himself. 

Maybe they'd think he's possessed? There are many ethereal beings not even Geralt's medallion can detect. Jaskier suppresses a shiver at the thought. How humiliating and— _dehumanizing_ would that be? 

A strange, terrifying urge blooms in Jaskier. An urge to go back to Geralt, smack him, and scream—because _how dare he_ explain himself when Jaskier wasn't there? Is he _trying_ to hide his plans from Jaskier? 

It's not Geralt's fault it happened. 

Jaskier's empty body likely asked him, reminded him of their little conversation during the egg gathering. Even Geralt did it knowing Jaskier wasn't _really_ there, he has a right to do so. 

Especially since Jaskier is, well, _Jaskier._

" _Eh,_ " says Jaskier in a carefree tone that matches neither the deafening rush of blood in his ears nor the way his heart batters against his ribs and lungs. "It'll be fine. He knows how to take care of me. Besides, after yesterday, I'm fairly sure Rhonwen won't let anything happen to me." 

Triss huffs and shakes her head. It's not an outwardly angry or offended act, and the momentary curl of her lips indicates light amusement, but Jaskier has the distinct feeling he said something very, very wrong. His heart lodges itself in his throat. 

"I'm not saying that's not true, but...Jaskier, Geralt won't be with you. We don't know if Geralt's _Axii_ will keep Rhonwen placid long enough for you to travel through Brokilon to meet with Eithné," Triss looks to the ground and kicks a rock. It skips several times before hitting a smaller rock, which then falls into the river. "You will be in constant danger—from _Rhonwen,_ included. Did you pay attention to what we said earlier? What _not_ to do in Brokilon?" 

Jaskier is about to say something, probably very stupid, but Triss doesn't give him the time to answer. She steps forward and whirls around, looking Jaskier right in the face and into his eyes. Her intense gaze makes Jaskier feel weak like a useless child, despite being a head-and-a-half taller than the Witch. His face stings without anything touching it and it feels like a memory; no, like an _expectation._

"Follow their lead, do _not_ take the initiative. If they don't speak to you, do _not_ speak to them unless absolutely necessary. Do not touch them, do not hug them, do not take a single step towards them if they haven't taken a step back and told you to follow." 

Jaskier doesn't know what to say. He simply nods. 

"Do you still have the xenovox?" Triss asks. Jaskier would very much like her to take a step or two or five back and away from him, but she stays rooted to the spot, intense and draining with the power she exudes. It makes Jaskier think of the shadow. He takes far too long to answer her question. 

"Should be somewhere," he says. Triss nods. 

"Call me when you get out, will you? So we can catch up," she commands. Then her cheeks darken and she takes a few steps back. Jaskier's shoulders relax and it's incredibly relieving. "I-if you want to, that is. We've only known each other a few days but I uh—you are—it wouldn't be—" 

"No, no, it would be nice!" Jaskier says with a smile. He wants very much to shove his fist in his mouth and not say a word, but his jaw and lips continue to move without his consent. "Would be nice to bother someone with my half-baked compositions and get input more sophisticated than a _'hng'_ or ' _hmmeh'._ " 

Jaskier his thumb in Geralt's general direction. Triss smiles, eyebrows rising to her forehead. ' _Uh oh,'_ Jaskier thinks right as a foot kicks at his shin. He turns with a squeal of outrage and he almost slams his face into Rhonwen's, who screeches at him and waves her arms. He instinctually hops away with a yell. 

Rhonwen turns to putty on Geralt's shoulders, trilling, cackling, and pointing at Jaskier. She steals a glance at Triss, who laughs just a bit harder, and she pats at Geralt's arm that holds her up. Geralt lets her down—Jaskier catches a glimpse at the Witcher's vindictive smirk—and then Rhonwen is latching onto Jaskier. 

He huffs theatrically, much to Rhonwen's delight. 

"You were supposed to avenge me, not aid the traitor in further betrayal," says Jaskier in mock-offense, nudging Rhonwen's cheek with his finger. She trills as she presses her face against Jaskier's finger, and then falls asleep as if on command. 

Jaskier hugs her close. 

Geralt didn't cast _Somne._ Jaskier's mind whirrs with worry—did the magic fuck up Rhonwen's sleep schedule? The terse air around them prevents Jaskier from thinking about it much. Geralt and Triss look at each other and nod, though Geralt's is barely perceptible even to Jaskier. 

"Time for goodbyes, huh?" notes Jaskier in a light tone. 

"Yeah," Triss sighs. She pats both Geralt's and Jaskier's shoulders and does a little curtsy at Roach, who neighs with a shake of her head. She turns to Jaskier. "I'll be hearing from you soon, I hope?" 

"Ehmm." 

"In two weeks," says Geralt. "I'll bring him out of Brokilon when I reach Hamm." 

Jaskier wants to say something, such as ' _why Hamm of all places?_ ', but he assumes Geralt has explained it while Jaskier had been drowning in himself, and so he keeps quiet. 

"I'll hold you to that," says Triss. It was almost a warning. She started to walk away backwards. " _Va fail, me caerdre._ " 

" _Va fail, caera,_ " says Jaskier with a salute. He returns Geralt's kick in the shin and Geralt sends a goodbye Triss' way. 

Geralt leads them down the chipped red bridge. A silence settles on them. Jaskier likes it. Both because he's too tired to actually talk and because Geralt enjoys it. The quiet does not extend to his mind, however, which is not as _nice._

What the hell is Geralt thinking, planning to risk his life just to get Jaskier out of Brokilon? That's unnecessarily stupid. And what is Jaskier to do? Die as he had been planning all his life, as he'd been excited to for the past few days when he realized the opportunity he's been presented with, and let Geralt endanger himself in vain? 

Or should Jaskier live and suffer and weep about it—and weep he would, as he already does—but make Geralt's life-threatening idea have a chance of succeeding? Jaskier would not know peace if Geralt died trying to save Jaskier's ass. 

He'd probably haunt Geralt's ghost. They'd be locked in some permanent afterlife dance of rage, and that'd be awkward. 

Jaskier really, really wants to die. He's been wishing for this for years. The dryads are his best bet right now to finally do it—to finally be _gone._ But he can't be gone if that endangers Geralt. What would Geralt do if he learned Jaskier had died in Brokilon? What if Geralt dies on the arrow of a dryad, not even knowing Jaskier is already dead, cursing himself for failing Jaskier? 

What if, when he finds Jaskier's notes and declaration of affection and friendship, Geralt will not come to get Jaskier, and he would have survived Brokilon for nothing? 

"Jaskier," rumbles a voice, forcing Jaskier out of his thoughts. He turns to Geralt, who looks at him with a fire in his golden eyes. "Are you sure you want to do this?" 

Jaskier blinks incomprehensibly at Geralt. His brain slowly tunes in to what he's being asked. 

"Well, yeah," he says. "Not many better options right now." 

"We could wait," says Geralt. 

"Geralt, no." 

"Brokilon is _dangerous,_ bard. Do you not understand?" 

"I understand plenty, Geralt!" Jaskier presses Rhonwen closer to himself, careful not to crush her. His arms buzz with _something_ —something that makes him want to hug things so tight they break in his hands. There's a spark of fear and concern for Rhonwen at the back of his mind. 

"If you _actually_ understood anything, you wouldn't have become so stubborn about this," Geralt growls. He stops walking, gently tugging Roach to a stop. He steps closer, and even though they are of the same height, Jaskier feels minuscule under Geralt's scrutiny. "It is not death that is the worst that awaits you. Brokilon has many monsters, but none are as dangerous as the dryads. They are merciless, Jaskier. They'll turn as many women as they can into dryads, and they'll take any men to bed as long as they'll get a child out of it. Do you think every man that passes through Brokilon _wants_ to bed them? Do you think they'll make an exception for you if you say no?" 

Jaskier _had,_ in fact, thought about that. Shortly. Mostly in passing. But, he didn't sweep it under the rug! He just— _hoped_ he wouldn't have to go through that. And, well, if he dies, he wouldn't particularly mind since it would grant him that lethal release, though he definitely wouldn't enjoy it. Now that he's faced with the prospect of _living_ because Geralt, wonderful and stupid Geralt, had decided to come back for Jaskier, however… 

Well, it is _different_. It's _terrifying._

Yet there is a significant part of Jaskier that doesn't care. Not for the dryad mating rituals, nor for Geralt's self-sacrifice and unasked concern, nor for what would happen if, for whatever reason, Rhonwen's metamorphosis into a dryad doesn't go as planned. 

He wants to die, and that's final. 

There's a kind of rage in that part of Jaskier, that part that wants to die first and foremost, and that rage really wants to scream right now. 

Jaskier smiles instead. 

"I know," he says, mind scrambling for any string of words that makes sense. "But Geralt, we can't keep her. She'd be magically drugged practically all the time, and let's be honest, we've treated her a little bit like a pet. She deserves better. The dryads might be dangerous, but they're the most likely to give Rhonwen a chance to be a person. That's worth it for me." 

The dark look in Geralt's eyes does not fade, nor the crease between his brows. Jaskier's heart thunders in his ears and slams against his ribs. 

"And besides," Jaskier starts, a smile slowly spreading across his lips, "why do you immediately assume I'd say no?" 

His attempt at deescalating the situation makes it even worse, for Geralt frowns deep and almost hisses as he speaks. 

"I know you, Jaskier," he says. Jaskier sighs. 

Isn't that part of the problem? 

"I know, big guy," Jaskier says. He brings up a hand towards Geralt's cheek and cradles it, patting it gently a couple of times. 

"Let's go." 

Jaskier turns away and starts the trek to Brokilon anew. Geralt follows silently, but so close Jaskier can feel his heat. He is clearly displeased and maybe just a little mad, but Jaskier doesn't let that stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding sexual content, how would you prefer it to be integrated into the fic? I doubt anyone wants full on graphic smut in here, but I don’t know how descriptive most of y’all are comfortsble with it being? I can always split things up: write semi-or-nongraphic sexual content for the main fic, but make shorter fics on the side that detail them more? Not sure the purpose of that but if anyone wants it I could try.
> 
> (Also, yes we might be having sex happen later, but no, Jaskier will not get raped (although sex as an unhealthy coping mechanism and other related choices are a whole nother topic))


	14. why don't you take a different horse upstream?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Self-deprecation, suicidal thoughts/ideation, leaning on a child for comfort (kind of?/mention), Jaskier being in general emotional turmoil
> 
> If there's some triggers I missed or you personally want added, please say so!
> 
> [Chapter title brought to you by: the idiom 'to change a horse midstream', ie. to make major changes to a situation or course of action that is already underway.]

Geralt had apparently decided to test Jaskier's resolve and frail patience, because he veers off road when they're only two hours away from reaching Brokilon. Rhonwen—being absolutely besotted with Roach—uses her cursed strength to pull an unwilling Jaskier along. Roach snorts and slams her muzzle against Geralt's shoulder several times before they reach a well-used campsite. 

Snow hadn't fallen since yesterday, so Jaskier doesn't know how long it's been since the campsite had been abandoned. There were footprints everywhere. The person—or _people_ —have trodden the snow flat in circles around the fire pit. Several of such trodden paths lead to a massive broken tree. 

Other than ashmarrow and birch, Jaskier isn't good at identifying trees; this one might be a pine, a spruce, or a fir. He knows for sure, however, that the tree had been evergreen, seeing as brown needles and thin cones littered the exposed ground. The tree was broken a meter or so above its roots—thick trunk and bare branches offering shelter from wind and snow. Someone had already taken the liberty of removing twigs that faced the ground, making the space bigger and generally more pleasant. The moss and earth were flattened and dented in. 

"Have you camped here before?" Jaskier asks, inspecting the little alcove. Geralt had led them directly to the place, with no hesitation or meandering, and it makes him wonder. 

Geralt's answer is a lackluster grunt. 

He doesn't look at Jaskier as he unearths their tent's green tarp and brings it over to the fallen tree. Roach follows behind, despite being completely loose. Rhonwen is— _probably_ —trying to help by taking more tarps out of the enchanted saddlebag of holding. To her, the supply of tarps, furs, and padded blankets must seem infinite. She keeps on emptying the bag gleefully even as Roach, on whom she sits, paces away from Geralt and the under-tree shelter. Jaskier not-so-gleefully picks everything up, following Roach's tracks. 

Rhonwen makes confused chirps when Jaskier begins to stuff the mountain of cloth back into the bag. She is a fast learner, though, and assists him despite her confusion. 

Cleaning isn't as fun as making a mess, however, and she quickly abandons both Jaskier and Roach. Geralt speaks up, too quiet for Jaskier to notice the individual words, but his tone is grave. Jaskier takes a peek behind himself, balancing a few more furs in his arms. Rhonwen stands by Geralt. Her posture is rod-straight, hands balled into fists by her hips and mouth pursed. Geralt, kneeling, waves a finger pointedly in Rhonwen's direction as he speaks. She nods at this or that, determined. 

Jaskier would have been placated into contentedness by the sight, if only Brokilon wasn't _just_ two hours away, and they didn't stop to camp for no reason. It's still midday! 

Geralt _must_ be testing Jaskier's will—probably to dissuade him. There's no way they'd be stopping otherwise. Tough luck for the Witcher, then. Jaskier's resolve strengthens out of spite. 

"You mind if I rest these on you?" Jaskier asks Roach. She simply neighs and uses a hoof to brush away some snow from the tree. She nips at the uncovered tree bark. Jaskier pats her neck apologetically. They didn't have much food for her at the moment. The fallen tree better be a pine—that's the only tree whose bark isn't toxic for horses, as far as Jaskier is aware. 

Taking Roach's nonchalance as permission, he gently piles the rest of the furs and blankets onto her. Folding them is always a mess. Jaskier does not have the skill for it, but he tries his best. It's fortunate the saddlebags are enchanted to have a greater holding capacity. There's still a limit to what they'll fit, but they are so useful! 

Roach continues to strip the tree bare. Silently, Geralt walks all around Roach and Jaskier, grabbing their bedrolls and stealing two of the furs Jaskier hasn't yet folded. Jaskier stays quiet. Even as Rhonwen comes to stand at his side and grabs onto his belt, standing like a soldier by his side. 

She pets Roach with solemn determination. 

Jaskier catches Geralt's gaze and quirks an unimpressed, questioning eyebrow. Geralt grunts and moves on to prepare their camp. 

"Is this posturing really necessary?" Jaskier asks, folding the last blanket and stuffing it in a smaller saddlebag pocket. It fills to the brim, but has just enough room not to burst at the seams. Jaskier turns to face Geralt, who pays him no attention as he rips branches off of the fallen tree. 

Jaskier sighs deeply. He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back to rest on Roach. 

"I'm going to Brokilon whether you like the idea or not, Geralt," he says. "You trying to prolong this isn't going to stop me." Which gives Jaskier an idea—or, well, less an idea, and more a realization. After all, 

Brokilon is just two hours away. Jaskier will find his way to it just fine. He doesn't _have_ to camp with Geralt, doesn't _have_ to keep him company. 

Geralt doesn't even want it. He just has a heart of gold and refuses to let fools run to their deaths, even if said fool wants it. 

Besides, if Jaskier leaves, he won't have any issues with keeping his vow of silence. His parting gifts are stuffed in a saddlebag pocket unofficially belonging to Jaskier, which Geralt won't really look at until much, much later—giving Jaskier ample time to finally die. With the road to Brokilon so short, he only needs to pack some food for Rhonwen and maybe grab a waterskin. 

He is by the bags already, too. 

Without much preamble, Jaskier grabs his bag of oils, divides its contents between a few half-full pockets, and puts some of their dried jerky and roasted doe into it. 

"What are you doing?" says Geralt from behind. 

There's a sudden heat at Jaskier's back and a weight on his ribs. His feet _don't_ kick out, courtesy of Roach being in their vicinity, but Jaskier flails as he's lifted up and away from the saddlebags. Rhonwen squeaks and holds herself as far away as her long arms allow her, hand still tucked into Jaskier's belt. 

"What are _you_ doing?!" Jaskier snipes back. He holds his bag of meat as far in front of himself as he can, out of Geralt's range. "Geralt, seriously, let go—" 

"First, tell me what you're scheming," Geralt growls. 

Jaskier's heart lurches into his stomach and his lungs turn to cold stone. 

" _Excuse me?!_ " Jaskier screams and digs his elbow into Geralt's arms. The Witcher, obviously stronger than Jaskier, doesn't loosen his hold. Jaskier kicks a leg out, loops it, and stabs the tip of his shoe into the back of the Witcher's knee. 

The Witcher grunts as its leg gives out. Jaskier feels a little stab of guilt at the back of his mind for using the Witcher's secret, its mutation, against it. However, Jaskier is also angry—more than he should be—and thus doesn't stop thrashing about. 

"What do you mean, _'scheming_ '?! Are you accusing me of going behind your fucking back? Perhaps you should have swapped me out with Triss if _that's_ the trust you put in me!" 

Rhonwen is making a lot of noise somewhere to the side. Jaskier isn't sure where _exactly,_ because her hand is no longer on the belt on his waist, and the Witcher has finally pinned him to the ground. Jaskier feels drained. There's a familiar, heavy weight to his limbs, and the inside of his chest burns. His breath comes out in short, quick bursts that leave his throat ragged. 

Five years of companionship, of discovering and caring for the Witcher's non-human qualities—one could say _monstrous_ —and yet! 

_And fucking yet!_

The Witcher thinks that just because Jaskier wants to go to Brokilon, he's betraying it?! 

Where's that trust Jaskier thought they had? He was so, _so_ sure there was at least that if nothing else. _Trust._ Faith in each other's loyalty. But no, _no,_ that's another thing Jaskier has delusionally believed in, isn't it? Along with their friendship, their closeness. 

Actually, fuck the goddamn friendship declaration and everything related to it! The Witcher is not getting a single scrap of that! It no longer has the privilege. Jaskier no longer wants to leave his heart with it if _that's_ what it thinks of him after all these years. Jaskier had been so, _so_ certain that if not friendship, they at least have come to an understanding—that the Witcher tolerated Jaskier and trusted him at least a _tiny_ , little bit! 

But no! No. 

Because why would he? 

"Jaskier, calm down!" the Witcher orders. 

Jaskier doesn't understand what the Witcher wants, because Jaskier _isn't moving,_ so what could the Witcher possibly be telling him to calm down for? 

Except he isn't face-flat on the snow anymore. His chest and hands are cold, and his houppelande and knees are damp, and there's the telltale texture of fur under his ass. The Witcher cradles Jaskier's hands, warming them through its gloves. Jaskier is breathing hard, heavy, and loud. If not for the blood rushing through his ears, Jaskier would probably _hear_ how his shivers rattle his bones. 

Was it real? Was what he thinks just happened real or is his mind betraying him again? 

The slight wetness of his houppelande and pants would deem it real, but he doesn't remember anything about how he got into this position. The Witcher must've done it. 

" _Abwuh?_ " comes a noise from the right. 

Jaskier's head snaps towards it before he even comprehends the sound. He's fairly sure a vertebra in his neck pops out of position. 

Rhonwen stands a few paces away, hugging the bag of meat to her chest. She's rosy-cheeked from the cold. Her pale hair cascades past the sea-green scarf wrapped around her, and patches of snow cling to her black shirt-dress. 

Jaskier decides to focus on that. It's easier to focus on that. 

He slowly removes a hand from the Witcher's hold. The Witcher stiffens, but doesn't stop him. He motions for Rhonwen to come to him, which she does immediately and without hesitation. 

_Thank fuck._

He doesn't think he could bear it if she feared him or felt disgusted by him. 

He gently brushes the snow off of Rhonwen. Her eyes flicker between his hands, his face, and the bag of meat she holds. Eventually, she makes up her mind—and takes the bag between her teeth, letting it hang, before pressing her boney hands against Jaskier's mouth. 

Jaskier and the Witcher move in tandem; Jaskier cups Rhonwen's hands in his and huffs hot air on them while the Witcher takes the bag from her mouth. 

Rhonwen's closeness soothes Jaskier. He can breathe easier and his heartbeat doesn't clobber against his ribs. After a little while, he lets go of Rhonwen's hands, and she looks to the Witcher and the bag. The Witcher doesn't give up the sack itself, but it does fish out a piece of roasted doe for Rhonwen to nibble on—which she does seated on Jaskier's crossed legs. 

A heavy silence stills the air between them. 

Jaskier thrums with a combination of shame, embarrassment, a little bit of guilt, and a moderate amount of anger. 

_What the fuck even was that?_

"Why are you so set on Brokilon?" the Witcher asks. Its voice is like muddied gravel on a stormy night. 

Jaskier pointedly averts his eyes. He purses his lips to stop them from _trembling._ Tears flood his eyes, but he does not let them fall. 

"You care about the girl," the Witcher says slowly. Jaskier hates how similar the tone is to the way the Witcher speaks to terrified townsfolk. He hates how the deep rumble makes his shoulders sag just a bit. "Why do you want to give her up so bad?" 

"That's not—" Jaskier cuts himself off. He takes a deep breath. "If we take her with us, you'd have to keep using _Axii_ on her, right? And I don't trust mages to treat her like a person. So—so to _Brokilon_ it is. A fate kinder than any other we might have given her." 

Jaskier steals a short glance at the Witcher's face. He immediately wishes he hadn't. It's a mask of marble, pale lips in a tight line and furrowed brows. Golden eyes pierce through Jaskier's soul for the half-a-second their gazes meet. Jaskier quickly returns to staring at the snow. 

Rhonwen finishes her meat. Instead of looking to the Witcher for a second portion, she turns where she sits and stares at Jaskier. Seeing something there, she slams her forehead into Jaskier's collarbone, making him jump with a wince. Then, rather than latching onto his houppelande, she snakes her arms around his neck. They're long enough that they loop around it with ease, meeting at the wrists. 

Feeling weak, Jaskier curls around her in a tight hug. He sighs through his nose. 

"You could take her home," the Witcher says. 

"The Path isn't the best place for a child," Jaskier answers. It comes out muffled. 

The Witcher's eyes squint as it realizes what Jaskier just said. Under any other circumstances, he would have been horrified—scared and panicked that he let himself say something so _vulnerable_ , but Jaskier is unable to feel anything but a concoction of lethargy and apathy. So what if he just said that? He's going to die anyway, _and_ he's taking his fucking notes with him. 

The Witcher doesn't sigh or grunt as it gets up and starts packing up the camp. This is where Jaskier gets abandoned, he's certain. 

He doesn't want things to end like this, but it's fine. 

Really, it's alright. Once the Witcher is gone, Jaskier will just...continue on to Brokilon. 

Jaskier hopes the Witcher will let him keep Rhonwen. 

Rhonwen makes an inquisitive noise at him. Jaskier realizes he's been squeezing her intensely and immediately loosens his grip, almost letting go of her and— _ah, fuck,_ his forearms _hurt._

The one glaring issue with the numbing cream is that it doesn't stop working _slowly._ It's like jumping from freezing Koviri waters into their famed hot springs. The change is sudden and jarring and the pain is always a bit worse right after it wears off. Jaskier sucks in a breath through his teeth. He hisses, his body bending on its own. Rhonwen's shouts grate at his ears badly enough that rage and frustration flow through his veins with a new ferocity. 

He _doesn't_ want to hurt Rhonwen...but he _really_ wants to. He doesn't. He does. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

He decides to pretend everything is alright. Jaskier lifts Rhonwen up, tickling her sides as he stands on shaky legs. Rhonwen's incoherent babble turns to loud trilling and wild flailing. The movement makes Jaskier lose his grip on her. Rhonwen doesn't see that as any issue—once on the ground, she rolls and crawls in the snow to get a few paces away from Jaskier. She stands, feet far apart, bends down, and uses her strong arms to fling snow at Jaskier. 

Jaskier sputters. He waves a hand in front of his face, covering his eyes. His feet kick out, retaliating with a wave of snow aimed at Rhonwen. She screeches. Jaskier turns, opens his eyes, and moves his hand to take a peek at what she's up to. Rhonwen is elsewhere. She's moved, inhumanely quick as she is, and she stands right in front of him. Seeing his bare weak point, she resumes her attack. 

Jaskier kicks more snow at her while stumbling backwards to get more ammunition under his feet. 

There's a lightness in his step that distracts him from the pain of his arms. Rhonwen's happy trills help him forget about the thunderous rush of blood in his ears and the tightness in his chest. 

Offense is the best defense, according to the Witcher— _sometimes,_ at least—so Jaskier shuffles his feet in Rhonwen's direction. It builds up a mountain of snow that grows with every inch forward. Rhonwen is crouched low to the ground, ends of her pale hair dragging along the snow. She stays in one place, but her body sways in anticipation. 

It reminds Jaskier of vultures when they stalk across the ground—predatory and murderous, searching for carcasses, blood, and bones. 

Jaskier kicks the snow pile he gathered. It hits Rhonwen right in the face. She squeaks but doesn't move away, too focused on wiping the snow from her cheeks. Jaskier sends wave after wave of snow after her. She screeches, but the snarl on her face seems to be a happy one. She remembers she can move and immediately jumps in circles around him. Jaskier's chest almost bursts with pride when he hits her regardless of her frenzied leaps. Rhonwen is better than him though, and ultimately he has so much snow in his hair it looks white. 

His movements grow wilder as he flinches away from the snowflakes that get under his many layers of clothes. It _tickles._

The snow under him goes from soft and fresh to hard-treaded and slippery. Jaskier's legs slide out from under him with a squeak. He tucks his arms to his chest and curls his neck, so it doesn't hit the earth full-force. 

Except he doesn't hit it. Warmth envelopes his back as thick, gloved hands rest against his sides. The Witcher's swords rattle with metallic _clinks_ when Jaskier slams into its chest. He sags, relieved that he shall forgo a concussion. 

The fingers at Jaskier's sides wiggle and make their way to his stomach. Jaskier howls with laughter. 

"Rhonwen, _now!_ " orders the Witcher and tucks its head behind Jaskier's neck. 

Jaskier's mouth fills with _cold_ as Rhonwen flings and kicks more snow at him. The Witcher's fingers don't cease their tickling, making Jaskier thrash around in its arms. He throws his head back without much input as shrieks rip through him, shaking him to his very core—which allows handfuls of snow to sneak under his collar. They burn against his flushed skin. The pain in his arms is drowned out by the bonfire in his lungs and thunder in his heart. 

"Mercy! _Mercy!_ " he tries to yell, slapping at the Witcher's hands. "Please, _fuck,_ oh gods, my ribs!" 

Everything stills. Jaskier stops breathing for a second as he is gently laid onto the ground. He spreads his limbs and lays flat on his back. He gasps in a breath. Despite the rattling in his lungs, the sting of cold in his throat, and the _trembling_ , he's feeling pretty great. 

The box of numbing cream lands on his sternum with a little _thunk._ One of Jaskier's hands reflexively grabs it. 

" _Phenks,_ " he mumbles airily. 

"Are you okay?" the Witcher asks. Jaskier gives a weak thumbs up, hand quivering with the effort of it. 

" _Phebyphababaa._ " 

"Uh-huh," the Witcher grunts before he moves away. 

Jaskier feels like he's floating for a while, half-asleep, before the pain of his wounds returns with a vengeance. Jaskier doesn't get up, nor does he take off his clothes. He opens the box, gathers up a little bit of the cream, and shoves his hand up the other arm's sleeve. The houppelande, doublet, and chemise are loose enough that Jaskier can easily slide his hands up his forearms with little resistance. 

Rhonwen, who has been thrashing around in the snow on her own, makes her way to Jaskier and kneels on his stomach. Her hands press against Jaskier's mouth. He discards the box of cream and cradles them, warming them up. He doesn't know whether his breath is actually warm—the numbing cream already working its way through his fingers—but Rhonwen seems satisfied. 

Geralt comes to a stop by Jaskier's head, snow crunching loudly under his black boots and heavy weight. 

"Are you going to get up?" he asks. 

"Someday," says Jaskier. 

"You're getting wet." 

"Already am." 

"I thought you wanted to reach Brokilon today?" 

Jaskier shoots up, hugging Rhonwen to himself as he staggers to stand on his quaking knees. He looks at the Witcher with wide, hopeful eyes. 

"You'll let me?" he asks. Geralt's mouth twists. 

"I have no say in your matters," he says. 

"Then what was _that thing_ earlier?" Jaskier's eyes narrow. He adjusts his hold on Rhonwen so he can bend down and grab the box of numbing cream. Geralt sighs above him and refuses to meet Jaskier's eyes when he straightens. 

"An impulsive reaction," Geralt grits out. He puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder and herds him towards Roach. Jaskier gives the box of numbing cream to Rhonwen, who for some reason gets that serious, stern look from earlier. She hugs the box close to her chest with a growly ' _harrumph'_. 

"I don't understand why you're so stubborn about Brokilon, but _fine,_ " says Geralt. Jaskier notices that the saddlebags—including the enchanted ones—look drained. There is also a crammed-full backpack balanced precariously on Roach's saddle. 

Cogs turn in Jaskier's head, slowly but surely. He blinks blankly as Geralt pushes him closer to the horse. 

"We don't need that much for the road," says Jaskier, pointing at the backpack. 

"It's not for you," says Geralt. Jaskier stares, uncomprehending, as Geralt puts the backpack on himself. He grabs Roach's reins, pulling her up from nosing mournfully at the snow-covered ground. He brings her closer to Jaskier. Jaskier would usually be petting the wondrous horse already—except that Geralt holds the reins towards Jaskier. Inviting him to take them. To _lead_ her. 

"What," says Jaskier so flatly that it doesn't sound like a question. 

"You're taking Roach," answers Geralt. 

" _What._ " 

"To make sure you stay alive," Geralt says, narrowing his eyes. He steps closer, Roach easily following, and he presses the reins to Jaskier's chest. Rhonwen looks on with interest, scrubbing a hand up and down Roach's nose. "Roach is quick enough to save you from most arrows if you anger the dryads and they decide to shoot you. She'll be taking care of you." 

Oh no no no _NO._

This is—what the _fuck_ is this? 

If Jaskier is actually granted such—such _impossible_ privilege, then he absolutely cannot die, because he can't do that to Roach; can't let her fail, can't let her be forced to see _more_ death than she already does on the Path, can't let her fall into the dryads' hands. They might not return her to Geralt, when he arrives—and he definitely _will_ if Roach joins Jaskier. And _sure,_ Roach has the magical ability to up and appear out of _nowhere_ , but she also gets stuck on rooftops and fences and Brokilon is a messy tangle of magic— _who knows_ if Roach will ever be able to get out without the dryads' to guide her? 

Jaskier _absolutely_ cannot do such a thing to Roach. 

Which means he absolutely _cannot_ take Roach with him. 

" _No,_ " Jaskier growls. His hands tremble again. His ribs suddenly feel too small of his lungs, his heart, and they creak with the effort of staying together. Blood thrums like a wardrum in his ears. Jaskier can barely stand. 

_'Why not?'_ , the Witcher's fiery glare asks him. 

He has to explain. Has to make a good argument to make Geralt take Roach. 

"You need her more," Jaskier says. His mind races in circles, a hurricane of half-formed retorts and stumbling phrases. "Hamm's what—a, uh, a week or two away? It'd be quicker with Roach." 

Geralt glowers at Jaskier, and as is often the case, Jaskier doesn't at all know what Geralt might be seeing. What he might be looking for or thinking. 

"There's no grass for Roach to graze. There would not be enough money to buy her oats. She'd not be able to stand the cold," Geralt lists with a tone that brooks no argument. A voice of finality, of a decision made. "Roach would suffer if she came with me. She will take care of you, and you will take care of her." 

Geralt must be as deafened by Jaskier's heartbeat as Jaskier is himself, what with his Witcher-y hearing. Hell, even if he can't, Jaskier _feels_ how his chest convulses against Geralt's hand. Rhonwen can feel it, too, and she curiously presses a hand over his heart, still protectively hugging the box of numbing cream. 

"And what does Roach think of this?" Jaskier asks, already knowing he's lost this fight. 

"We've talked about this," says Geralt. Roach neighs and her head moves as if nodding. She noses impatiently at Jaskier's shoulder, so he pats her jaw and under her eyes. Roach presses into his palm, eyes fluttering. 

Jaskier's twitching fingers find their way to the reins eventually. He doesn't take his eyes off of Geralt, who returns the gaze without hesitation. The Witcher takes off a glove and wordlessly holds it out to Jaskier. Jaskier twists Roach's reins around his wrist to free his hand, and he wraps it around Geralt's. He curls the Witcher's fingers over the glove. 

"I'll be in Brokilon soon," he says. "I won't need these." 

For a mortifying second, Jaskier thinks Geralt will force the gloves on him anyway. 

Geralt doesn't. He nods at Jaskier and takes the glove back without putting it on. Jaskier feels he needs to nod, for some reason, and he does. Geralt takes that as a confirmation for something and he turns, marching away from the almost-campsite. His pace is quick and sure-footed. Jaskier follows him back to the road. The allegro beat of heart does not slow and his lungs strain against his ribs. 

While walking, Jaskier puts Rhonwen on Roach's saddle. She sits sideways, clutching the box to her chest, swaying from side to side. She seems content with everything, an absent smile on her face. She admires the passing trees and moves to pet Roach's neck every other minute, as it is the only part of Roach currently not hidden under a quilted tarp. 

Roach, to her credit, takes the rough affection with apathetic grace. 

When they reach the road again, Geralt veers to the direction they came from, not sparing Jaskier, Roach, or Rhonwen another glance. Jaskier slows to a stop, staring at Geralt's black form, at how it stands out from the pale snow of the path framed by dark trunks of the trees around them. 

Jaskier turns towards Brokilon and begins his trek towards the magical wood. There's something that grows and _grows_ in his chest, which already feels distorted. With every step, his ribs ache more, his heart grows heavier, and his lungs, which previously had seemed so full they could burst, suddenly feel empty as if no breath can fill them. 

It comes to a point where he cannot go on for even an inch. Pleadingly, he turns to Roach, who seems to already know what he's going to do. He leans in, presses a kiss to the side of her head. Jaskier lets go of the reins and makes his way to Rhonwen, sliding a hand down Roach's neck in thanks for her coolheadedness. 

Rhonwen stares innocently at him. 

Jaskier takes the box of numbing cream from her. Her gnarled hands press at his mouth, and he presses a kiss to one of them before puffing hot air at them. 

His heart slams against his lungs and ribs as though trying to free itself. 

"Wait here," says Jaskier, pointing to Rhonwen and then to the saddle. Rhonwen purses her lips solemnly, straightening her back and balling her hands to fists in her lap. Jaskier forces himself to send a smile her way. He squeezes her lumpy knee. 

Then, Jaskier books it down the road, sprinting at Geralt. He must either be faster than he thought or _floating in the mist_ again, because despite the brisk pace Geralt had set for himself, Jaskier reaches him quickly. 

Geralt pirouettes. His swords rattle, despite the weight of the backpack pressing them tighter against Geralt's back. Jaskier crashes into him wordlessly and throws his arms around Geralt's neck. The momentum sends Geralt stumbling a few paces, Jaskier pressing forth after him. Geralt catches his balance, stops, and their bodies push painfully against each other. 

Jaskier hides his face in the crook between Geralt's neck and shoulders. The Witcher doesn't exactly _hug_ him back, but two hands settle at Jaskier's hips, clutching softly at his belt and houppelande. 

The _something-close-to-bursting_ in his chest disappears. Jaskier can breathe again. He inhales deeply, not even flinching as Geralt's smell stings his nose. It's not as bad as he expected, even with decay, dirt, and dust crawling down his throat. Jaskier's arms hang limply curled around Geralt's neck for a few long seconds. Wind rustles Jaskier's hair. Snow crunches under their feet as Geralt readjusts his stance, chest pressing against Jaskier just a bit. 

' _If this was a play or a ballad,_ ' Jaskier thinks, _'there would be a kiss. Right now, right here.'_

He gallantly fights off the _urge_ this puts in his head. 

With a quiet sigh, Jaskier gives Geralt once last squeeze before he steps back. He pushes the box of numbing cream at Geralt's chest. Geralt, unlike Jaskier with Roach's reins, takes it without prodding or hesitation. 

"Remember to use it," orders Jaskier. "Take care of yourself." 

"Mmhm," rumbles Geralt, the sound so rough it reverberates in Jaskier's ears. Jaskier smiles tightly. He gives Geralt's shoulder some final pats and he scurries away. 

* * *

When the Witcher's silhouette becomes invisible in the distance, faded behind the horizon, everything he did not dare feel that day catches up to Jaskier. 

_How the fuck dare it?!_

Jaskier only wants to die! 

It's not something other people have any right to. It's _Jaskier's_ life. It's _Jaskier's_ death. _Nobody_ is allowed to stop him; it's no one's _business_ to stop him. 

Everything ends! Which means everyone _dies_ , at one point or another. 

So what if Jaskier wants to die _early?_ So what if death is his greatest comfort but also his greatest torment, because he wants it so bad he does not truly _live_? 

The Witcher has no right to meddle with Jaskier's life affairs. If Jaskier wants to stab himself in the throat, he can. If Jaskier wants to put himself in mortal danger, he can. It is his _godsdamned right_! No one fucking asked him if he wants to live in the first place. He would have said ' _no_ '! He would have said ' _fuck that_ '! 

He doesn't want to live. He doesn't want to live he doesn't want to live he doesn't hedoesn't _hedoesn't!_

The Witcher has no say in it. The fucking horse has no say in it. Rhonwen should have been his end, his reaper, his _liberator_ , back when she was little more than a mindless animal preying in the ruins of Old Vizima. 

Lamentably, she wasn't. 

She could have made it up to him. She _could have_ made it up to him because she's his reason to go to Brokilon, a magical death forest full of murderous dryads. 

But no! _No!_ The Witcher, who claims not to get involved in human affairs, got involved in human affairs— _again!_ —and decided to thwart Jaskier's plans. 

Jaskier shouldn't let it. 

He _absolutely should not_ let the Witcher do it. 

He doesn't _have_ to let the Witcher do it. 

Jaskier is fully capable of asking the dryads to kill him even now. He can piss them off enough to kill him of their own volition, either with lewd songs or disrespectful speech or his general _Jaskier-ness._ He doesn't have to care about the horse or the Witcher, nor its stupid plan to _come get Jaskier_. Who the hell does the Witcher think Jaskier is, a toddler left by his parents at the neighbour's house? 

It's so _humiliating._

Especially because Jaskier is aware of what the Witcher is doing. 

The Witcher _knows_ Jaskier adores Roach. The Witcher knows Jaskier cares for it—it _must_ , now at least, because Jaskier went and said the Path is his home. And it is, but Jaskier wasn't fucking _trying_ to say it! He didn't plan on it. He wrote it in his notes, he included it in his parting words, but—he never, _ever_ wanted to make it known out loud, in person. 

His eyes burn, but the streaks on his cheeks left by tears are freezing cold. 

Roach walks placidly by his side, every so often nudging his face, to which he'd respond with scritches to her head and neck and shoulders. Rhonwen was more focused on eating the roasted doe the Witcher had left them—took all the jerky with it, which was the _worse meat,_ that self-sacrificing prick. 

The Witcher didn't even take the tent. Left behind most of the furs, most of the doe, all of Jaskier's things— _parting letters included_ , thank fuck—and grabbed, what, maybe one or two extra pairs of socks? It's not like they _had_ more clothes—all spares evenly divided between them all to keep warm—so the idiot should have taken as many blankets and tarps and fur as it could! 

_So stupid._

Why does Jaskier even care how little it took with it? 

He's fucking furious at it! 

The bastard _knows_ Jaskier and uses that to control him. Allows him to go to Brokilon, sure, but prevents Jaskier from doing _the one thing_ he's been looking forward to all his life. 

_Maybe_ all his life. 

He doesn't remember anything _before._ He's not sure if there was a before. It's like he was born, _kind of_ went to Oxenfurt—he doesn't remember much of that—and then he was with the Witcher. His Witcher. _His friend_ , whom he really, _really_ fucking hates right now. 

Roach bumps the side of her head against Jaskier, shaking it as if to say _'don't think like that'._

Jaskier is devastated that his rage hinders his enjoyment of Roach's compliance and affection. He's so angry, in fact, he doesn't even _care_ about the honor of being _trusted_ with Roach—wonderful, prickly Roach who never hesitated to kick the daylights out of anything she didn't like. Jaskier is being _acknowledged,_ by Geralt and by Roach, and he hates it. >He hates it so much. 

Something tugs at his belt. Jaskier's head whips lightning-fast to look down, his neck aching and vision blurring from the speed. Rhonwen's big brown eyes meet his. 

She doesn't quite grasp facial expressions in new situations without anyone to mimic. Her mouth is in a neutral line, eyes opened wide, eyebrows relaxed. Still, her gaze feels so... _intense._ It rips into Jaskier, freezes him in his tracks. His eyes flood with tears and he quickly wipes them away, letting go of Roach's reins. She comes to a stop without his guidance. 

" _Abwuh?_ " warbles Rhonwen. 

The little sound _does something_ to Jaskier. 

It breaks a dam and _everything_ overflows. Jaskier whines at the back of his throat, high-pitched and pitiful, and his haggard breath leaves him quaking. His eyes, which had already been wet and red, flood with even more tears. Everything turns shapeless. Shifting colors wobble all around him. Blinking feels like sandpaper dragging over his eyes. 

Rhonwen makes another noise, but Jaskier barely registers it. He crouches, almost kneeling, and he reaches out with both arms. Rhonwen quickly plasters herself to his front, between his thighs, and he embraces her tightly—maybe _too_ tightly. But he can't help himself. Rhonwen's long legs make her taller than Jaskier like this, just a little bit, and he hides his face in her tiny shoulder and sea-green scarf. The snowflakes that clung to it bite at his ruddy cheeks, but they bring a relief to his eyes. 

By the gods, he's so _pathetic_. He seeks comfort in a damned four-year-old child, _magicked_ into equanimity because she had suffered her whole life in the distorted body of a cursed beast. 

She's too young to understand anything that's going on. She's too young to really be anything—she's only been properly human and _forcedly aware_ of things for, what, three days? 

Rhonwen is too young to shoulder the responsibility of comforting adults, yet Jaskier hugs her tight and whimpers into her shoulder. 

He hates himself for it. 

Rhonwen not-so-gently slams her temple against the back of Jaskier's head, snuggling against it. Her misshapen arms wind around his neck and long boney fingers latch onto the fabric of his houppelande. 

Something soft, smooth, and warm nudges Jaskier's exposed neck. It's Roach's nose, he realizes after a moment. 

How fucking pathetic that Jaskier is being comforted by a little girl and a horse. That he's crying because _he can't fucking die,_ even though that's not even what's happening here. He's just a coward—nothing is truly preventing him from getting slaughtered like the pig he is. He doesn't _have_ to stay alive for Roach. He doesn't _have_ to stay alive for Geralt. He can drop Rhonwen off and die and be done with it. 

But he loves Roach too much to do that to her. He doesn't want her or the Witcher to be hurt because of him. 

He's such a coward. 

He should have been taken by a Witcher when he was a child. He could have died so easily—in the Trials, during the Sacking, on the Path. He could have. He _should_ have. 

Maybe if he had been born decades earlier, he replaced Geralt. It'd be wonderful. One kind soul spared the torture and one rotten soul getting what it deserves. 

But a just Destiny exists only in romantic ballads. 

Jaskier sighs wetly into Rhonwen's shoulder and straightens, lifting her. He hitches her up on his hip, wiping his face with his houppelande's massive, cold sleeve. Rhonwen adjusts herself but keeps her arms around his shoulders, fingers intertwined and resting against his bare neck. _They burn him._ They soothe him. Ground him. Her weight at his hip, knowing he must help her stay there, helps Jaskier keep his mind clear enough to take Roach's reins in his free hand and march onwards. 

As an apology for his pitiful outburst, Jaskier presses a kiss to the side of Roach's head and between Rhonwen's eyes. 

It's not a very good apology, but he has nothing better to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fic: Jaskier having A Very Bad Time™  
> Me: tylko jedno w głowie maaaaam, koksu pięć graaaam, odlecieć saaaaaam, w krainę za zapomnieniaaa...  
> (search "polish cow" on youtube)


	15. Aen Woedbeanna agus Brokiloén

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Mentioned child abuse, mentioned verbal/physical abuse, a hint at the mating ritual of dryads, blood and injury, an insctoid monster.
> 
> There's a few things in this chapter for the gamers amongst the readership! Two little References, here and there :D  
> Those who didn't play shouldn't really be bothered, and they're not missing all that much
> 
> Also, we have our own version of dryads! They feel far too 'human' in the books and the TV show, and I hate, hate, _hate_ what the games/Gwent did to them! Turned them into little but green-skinned eye candy. No thanks.
> 
> [Chapter Title: 'Women of the Woods and Brokilon' in The Witcher's Elder Speech.]

All things considered, the journey to Brokilon should be easy. 

Roach leads their little group most of the way. She sets a brisk pace for herself with Rhonwen and Jaskier riding atop her saddle. The girl, for once, doesn't harass the horse. She's busy with hunting sheep in her dreams. Brokilon's potent magic tints the air with the scent of tree sap. They're not even in Brokilon's proper territory when they pass the magical threshold. 

Time itself is suspended and immortalized—spring and summer rooted in place, leaves rustling, breezes raising goosebumps on Jaskier's skin, and trodden moss muting the _clop-clop-clop_ of Roach's hooves. 

The journey should be easy, but it is not. 

On their way to the summer-spring, Jaskier cycles between burning with rage and drowning with guilt. As doomed as he feels, he knows, rationally, the Witcher is only trying to help. It doesn't know there is no problem because Jaskier hadn't told it. It doesn't stop Jaskier from cursing it to Marzanna's cold clutches—until it _does,_ and Jaskier tastes his tears anew while screaming apologies at the Witcher in his mind. Over and over and over it goes, from rage to guilt and guilt to rage, until Jaskier is dizzy, blurry-eyed, and drained. 

Rhonwen had hugged Jaskier whenever he wept, but she fell asleep not long after their parting with the Witcher. It was for the better. Once unburdened by Rhonwen's shifting and rough affection, Roach quickened her gait. 

Jaskier feels no amazement when they enter the beauty that is the summer-spring. 

All kinds of flora pop up with overwhelming density. Fruit-bearing trees in full bloom— oranges, lemons, limes, cherries, apples, pears, pomegranates, and nameless beads of all colors hanging in clusters. Moss covered the ground, painting it in many shades of green. Teal and chartreuse, light and dark, an impressionist patchwork straight out of a van Rogh artwork. The underbrush was saturated with blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, gooseberries, and more. Evergreen and deciduous trees grew in harmony. Jaskier couldn't distinguish them, but many names came to mind; cedar, oak, hickory, mahogany, golden birch, yew, spruce, and pine. The air smells of citrus and sap. 

Every step forward brings Jaskier's attention to a new, different tree—he's certain some of these had no names in Common and were simply _Brokilonian._

Despite the golden light that warms Jaskier's face, the skies are as grey and cloudy in the magical sphere as outside of it. 

They walk a few more paces into the forest when Jaskier decides it is time for Roach to take a break. The edge of this magical summer-spring is close and the plantlife is bountiful. Jaskier hops out of the saddle with Rhonwen in his arms. He pets Roach's neck and lets her graze, which she does eagerly. 

Jaskier sighs. The Witcher was right when it said it was for the best for Roach to go to Brokilon, but _fuck,_ Jaskier was so happy to finally be done with everything. 

A sob passes his lips. He should drink something, probably, to ease his headache and the dizziness and his parched throat. He won't. 

Rhonwen stirs in his arms. 

Looking down, Jaskier sees her nose flare. Her eyes shoot open with a long, loud inhale, and she jerks. Jaskier yelps as she tumbles out of his hold. She resumes her feral, crabby stance and predatory sway, stalking across the grassy ground on her tiptoes. Claws emerge from her curled fingers and talons pierce the letter of her shoes. Jaskier hisses under his breath. With measured, slow steps, Jaskier circles her. 

"Rhonwen, if you're hungry, we still have some of the doe," he says. 

She doesn't turn to him at the sound of his voice. Her perfectly square teeth glint in the light, bared in a wolflike snarl. She walks sideways towards him, eventually crowding him against Roach—who cares solely about the tasty fresh grass. 

Jaskier places a placating hand on Rhonwen's shoulder. Tense muscles twitch under his fingers but she doesn't jolt or flinch away. Jaskier crouches slowly, settling himself beside Rhonwen rather than behind her. He puts one knee on the ground and leans to eye-level with Rhonwen. 

"Hey, hey, what's going on?" he asks breathily, trying to soothe her. 

Rhonwen's eyes flick to him, no understanding in them, and her grimace turns to one of determination. She adjusts her stance, ready to pounce. 

Sighing, Jaskier bumps his forehead against her shoulder. Right. He can't reason with her with words. The talons poking holes in Rhonwen's— _Jaskier's_ —boots catch his eye. The damage is already done but he sees no reason not to take them off. Besides, Rhonwen is more used to being barefoot. Maybe it'll make her more comfortable? She doesn't show any discontentedness, not exactly, but it's not like she'd know _how_ to signal it. Not in a way Jaskier understands, at least. 

Rhonwen is marginally cooperative as Jaskier gets the boots off. He has to lift her feet, bend her ankles, and tug at the leatherwork violently but she doesn't try to _stop_ him. 

Rhonwen proceeds to... _bounce_ in place. Her sway turns wilder, more fluid and fluent, reaching new extreme angles and lows. It reminds Jaskier of a ritualistic dancer—jerky movements gaining flow but not gracefulness, mesmerising yet _odd._

Jaskier stuffs the boots and socks into a saddlebag. 

Should he take the tarp off? She'll be uncomfortable, sweating under it, but at the same time, they are out in the open. Many monsters live in the forest, even most mundane beasts affected by Brokilon's power. Jaskier cannot let anything happen to Roach, and while Rhonwen has the hunting experience of a striga, she's not a striga anymore. So unaware of her limitations, she might land herself into too big a mess. 

There's no point in risking it. Jaskier takes hold of Roach's reins, holding them loosely, and tugs at Rhonwen's sleeve. She comes, albeit exceedingly slowly. She keeps herself facing the same direction, glaring past the trees. The sway of her body abates, but she does not look away. She walks sideways, almost dramatically so, keeping herself between Jaskier and whatever it is she's sensing. 

Another _urge_ rises within Jaskier. As scary as the others, but nowhere near as bloody or brutal—this time, his hand tightens its hold and his arm stiffens with the desire to _pull_. Pull, tug, and rip at Rhonwen, maybe yell at her. ' _Come on!_ ' or ' _Quicker!_ '. 

He doesn't. Hopefully, he never will. 

They walk a few more paces into Brokilon territory when he hears a whistle. His head snaps in its direction, hand gripping Rhonwen's arm instead of her sleeve. She screeches right as red fletching feathers of an arrow slash across his temple. The sharp arrowhead cuts through his hair and buries into the tree behind him. Roach whinnies, thrashing her head—the arrow almost grazed her mane. She flails, clobbering Jaskier with her head and hooves. Her reins slip from Jaskier's fingers. 

_Oh, shit. Oh, fuck._

Jaskier's heart thunders more because of Roach than the arrow. He lets go of Rhonwen, who launches into the forest with a war cry, and he tries to retake the reins. Roach slams into his palm, forcing his nails back into his fingers. His elbow gives out. Roach's head crashes into his chest, shoulder, jaw, and he's thrown back onto the soft underbrush. 

Roach stomps her hooves and whinnies, tail wild. She shoots off. Bits off grass and moss land on Jaskier in her wake. 

"Roach!" he screams. He whistles like Geralt usually does when he calls for her, but she doesn't turn back to him. Within seconds she's gone, both from view and his hearing. 

On one hand, _oh no, holy fucking shit, Geralt's going to kill him if anything happens to Roach._

On another hand, _oh hell yes, Geralt's going to kill him._

On a third metaphorical hand, _if anything happens to Roach, Jaskier will burn down the entire fucking Brokilon forest and die with it._

There's Rhonwen to worry about first. He jumps to his feet and sprints after the girl. He can't lose both, he _can't._

"Rhonwen!" he calls like a mantra. Twigs and thick leaves beat against his legs and hips as he runs through bushes and around trees, doing his best to follow Rhonwen's path. The forest rustles and cracks around him, suddenly coming to life, the idyllic _quiet_ of summer-spring—which he hadn't even _noticed_ —disappearing in favor of snapping twigs and chirrups of birds. 

Jaskier's foot catches on a twig and he stumbles. He skips, spinning, trying to find his balance. Darkness overtakes him with a sudden stab of pain between his eyes, his nose suddenly clogged. He pushes away from the trunk of the tree, whipping his head around. From every side, he hears rustling, creaks, and croaks. Birds he can't recognize sing, call and chirp in the canopy. Their sheer number makes the flaps of their wings impossibly loud. The ground trembles under his feet. 

His blurry mind belatedly realizes it's not his heart, which pummels against his lungs and shatters his ribs. It's not the pulsing in his ears and head, as if his blood was trying to burst through his skull. 

No, the ground was trembling, spazzing under his feet, accompanied by the characteristic sound of digging and rocks hitting against the thick plate of a scolopendromorph— 

A scream lodges itself in Jaskier's throat as he dives to the side, rolling on the moss as the giant centipede breaks through. It is something different than what Jaskier thought, though, for nothing of it seems to be made of flesh. Thick bark covers its segmented body, made up from twisting vines, falling rocks, and sticks. Green beams of light danced on the ground, coming from the monster's underbelly. 

Its many twig-legs _click-click-click_ , wooden carapace slapping against itself. It gurgles and warbles like a real giant centipede. Jaskier races on his hands and knees to get away from the twisting forest critter. 

Its mandibles stretch wide open. 

Jaskier's feet dig through the moss and into the ground as he scrambles to run. The giant centipede hurls green fluid which splatters against the ground and tree just behind Jaskier, as well as just above his boots. Like the flesh-and-blood scolopendromorph venom, it doesn't melt him, or eat away his skin, or _injure_ him in any way. It simply _hurts._

It is a serrated needle forced through his very bones, throbbing to the beat of his heart. Almost as if an invisible hand was sawing it through him. The scream that lodged in its throat finally comes out, agonized and panicked. It shreds his throat, almost sending him back to his knees. Jaskier manages through it. Everything in him yearns to run away, so he does. His legs don't need much encouragement, even though they are sore and and his feet sting. He sprints through the woods, hoping to lose the monster. 

_'Think! What did Geralt say?'_

For the Witcher had told Jaskier about the giant centipedes with a name as difficult to pronounce as it is to rhyme. It was in Toussaint. Jaskier remembers it well—the fine wines and beautiful nature, the folk willing to listen to his more refined ballads rather than the bawdy tavern tunes. A contract from a father with a paralysed little girl, for whom he paints animals and landscapes. Even if the animals are monstrous beasts, like giant man-eating centipedes. 

Something about blindness and tremors. They can sense tremors? This isn't the real thing, but considering its similarities to actual scolopendromorphs, well—it's not like it can get much worse. 

Jaskier almost stops in place before he realizes how stupid of an idea _that_ is. He's already made so much ruckus in this direction. The centipede is probably following him. It knows where to find him. 

He'll slow long before he happens upon a herd of brave deers. Or hell, maybe he'll find himself surrounded by wolves, or bears, or more centipedes, or man-eating flytraps. He wouldn't put it past the dryads. Or hell, maybe Brokilon has a consciousness and made such things themselves. 

_What to do?_

Jaskier's foot lands on a thick root and he manages to kick off without losing balance, gaining some distance. And—well, that's an idea. His eyes flicker around him, trying to make sense of his surroundings even though they are nothing more than blurry shapes. 

Almost all of the not-fruit-bearing trees are massive, mindbogglingly old. Very sturdy, too, with girthy branches that overlap with surrounding trees. 

Realistically, it's not going to work. Also, he's lost Roach and Rhonwen, is there even _a point_ to staying alive? 

His mind screams back at him. He's lost them, but they're not dead—as far as he's aware. He should at least try to find them, especially Roach. As much as he loves Rhonwen, he's willing to hurt himself by losing her forever. But _Roach_? Roach has been alive almost as long as the Witcher—the logic of which Jaskier is not going to question, _long live the horse_ —and if anything happens to her, it will be emotionally _gutted_. Absolutely devastated. 

Jaskier can do that to himself, but he's not doing that to the Witcher. 

He _has_ to stay alive, if only to keep Roach safe and return her to Geralt. 

Resolve in place, Jaskier changes his course to a tree. He holds his breath as he plants shaky foot onto it. Then the other, and then the first again, until he manages to latch onto the lowest branch and _pull up_ , legs still running in the air. 

Everything in him burns and throbs. His head, his eyes, throat, lungs, heart, legs. He doesn't want to run, doesn't have the energy. He hasn't drunk anything today. Hasn't eaten. Quiet sobs spill from his mouth as he unsteadily climbs onto the next branch, just a little bit higher. 

The plant-scolopendromorph erupts from the ground, breaking roots in its wake. It's blind, but not completely deaf, so Jaskier holds his breath. He bumps the back of his head against the trunk of the tree, eyes squeezed shut. Gurgling starts again. Jaskier doesn't need more motivation. He bolts along the thick branch, jumping from a pale-leafed tree and onto a dark-needled one. The green acid splatters behind him. 

Needles stab into his face and hands, through his houppelande and doublet, and his eyes are shut tight. He quivers as he reluctantly grabs onto the thinner, smaller twigs shooting out from the main branch— _thinner_ , but still as wide as his arm, and much stronger. 

Jaskier allows himself to breathe when he balances on the branch, body flat and cushioned on smaller twigs shooting out from it. He drags himself towards the trunk, every muscle twitching and trembling. The textured bark and twigs and needles bite his skin. They scrape across his face and leave pale streaks surrounded by red. Jaskier powers through it. 

There was a certain comfort to be found in the idea of bringing Roach to the Witcher. A certain determination, especially when he also reminded himself that Rhonwen is probably alive. _Where_ she is is a completely different matter, but...she's alive. Ideally. 

Jaskier does his best to regulate his breathing as he maneouvers around the massive tree trunk, looking for the next place to jump to. 

Fortunately, this is Brokilon—almost every surrounding tree bas branches as thick as the Witcher's legs. Jaskier pushes on. He shreds the skin of his hands and tears away at his face with every new branch he latches onto. He's traveled across countless trees when everything spins. Everything quivers and trembles and he can only barely distinguish the shifting colors in his vision. The taste of copper lays heavy on his tongue. His white-knuckled, bloodied hands can barely move. Climbing down the tree is a confusing, slow mess of a descent. He fits the tips of his shoes between the groves of the bark and embraces the tree. It's the only way he manages to find his way onto the ground, seeing as his fingers are stiff and refuse to ball into a fist. 

He descends from the height of two-and-a-half meters in five minutes. 

Jaskier breathes shakily. His knees give out and he has no energy or will to get up. For the longest time, he lays on the ground, each passing second weighting his body, mind, and soul. The moss and earth are so, so soft, under him. Like a soft fur, or the straw palate of an inn, or the feather-fluffed pillows of higher courts. 

Jaskier leaps up in a panic. He stumbles, bashing his head into a tree trunk and tumbling over roots. His head swims, his limbs feel like limp noodles, and his body just might be made out of mashed potatoes with how _weak_ it is. 

He can't take a break. There's Rhonwen to track down. There's Roach to deliver to the Witcher after who-knows-how-long. 

He slaps at his face to wake himself. It irritates the many cuts and tears he gained from his 'lose-the-living-plant-monster' plan. He probably also just smeared blood everywhere. Jaskier strains his senses, tries to find something to follow—whether it be a hunch or a trail. 

The breeze is cool despite the warm, beaming light which comes from nowhere, yet illuminates all of Brokilon. Pale clouds cover the sky, not a single scrap of blue peeking from beyond. It might be snowing on the outside of the summer-spring. Birds chirp, whistle, and call for each other. 

Amidst the rustle of the leaves, a screech. 

A howl, really. Jaskier's head snaps in its direction. While warbled and distorted, it is humanlike, and has a quality similar to Rhonwen's trills and shouts. Except it is not happy. It is the closest that Rhonwen has ever gotten to being like her old self: the cursed striga. 

Jaskier's heart skips a beat. He stands, frozen and wide-eyed. Fear flutters in his lungs like butterfly wings. ' _A relapse?_ ', Jaskier thinks. Rhonwen might kill him if it's a relapse—if she hadn't truly been cured, her curses instead only mitigated. Jaskier shakes his head. Even if that's the case, he must check on her. His silver dagger is tied to his thigh under his houppelande, the tip catching the light from below the hem. 

With his mind made up, Jaskier jogs towards the sound. There's not enough adrenaline in him to run any faster. 

He passes the forest safely albeit clumsily. The closer he gets to his destination, the more he hears. Not only noises similar to the screech, but also the sounds of human yells. In Elder, frustrated and tired. Rhonwen is fighting someone and she might be winning. 

The thought helps Jaskier pick up the pace. He runs around trees and ducks under some of the lower branches. He forces his way through many bushes and almost trambles an itty bitty little snake, which curls into a messy pile instead of striking at him. Then, he reaches a meadow. 

Well, something of a meadow. It is covered in tall blooms of all kinds, most of which reach up to his knees. There are trees which grow far sparser than the rest of the summer-spring forest. All of them bear fruit; big and small; red, orange, yellow, blue and purple. The leaves were as multicolored as the moss in the forest. Each 'tree' had several trunks grown out from the same spot in the earth, going either straight up or diagonally. Despite their smaller size, all of them had many, many branches, and almost as many fruits as they had leaves. 

Amidst the pretty flowers and fruitful trees, Rhonwen and a dryad grapple each other with fervor. Jaskier runs closer, about to tell Rhonwen to stop, when she lifts the dryad up off the ground and _throws_ her—far and with formidable force. The dryad falls with a pained groan. Going by the blood on Rhonwen's face and claws, the dryad is already injured. 

Jaskier launches himself towards the dryad right as Rhonwen runs. Rhonwen is much faster than he'd ever expect a little girl to be, but distance is on his side. The dryad had landed far closer to him than Rhonwen, and though for every step he takes, Rhonwen takes four, Jaskier manages to intercept her. 

He shoots forward, almost stumbling over the dryad, skipping over her at the last second. Rhonwen crashes into his arms, the momentum of which throws him backwards. She clobbers her hands and feet against Jaskier, beating black and blue bruises into him. 

"Hey, hey! That's enough, now, Rhonwen, please, clam down, oh for fu— _STOP!_ " Jaskier roars. One of his hands raises to smack Rhonwen's head, to make her freeze and stop moving. He doesn't. He throws Rhonwen off of himself, away from the dryad, fear, disgust, and anger suddenly making his skin boil and his heart stop. 

_He almost hit her._

_He yelled._

There's a new kind of sting in his cheek—a tightness around his wrist where he can still feel the indents left by the precious jewels in Mother's rings, a vice-like grip on the back of his neck, Father dragging him to the carriage headed for Oxenfurt. Memories of his parents resurface—anything and everything but their faces or names. His eyes ring with vicious words. He can't even discern them, can't make out what they actually say, but they bring the taste of acid to his mouth. 

Rhonwen, her wits back with her, looks at him blankly. He sits up, edging away from both the heavy-breathing dryad coiled on the ground and Rhonwen—her and her piercing gaze. It follows him as her eyebrows and mouth corners twitch. Slowly, her face turns into a perfect replica of the constipated-concerned face she mirrored back with the Witcher and Triss, back when her claws dug holes in his hands. 

She sniffs at the blood on her hands, then scents the air, eyes never leaving Jaskier. Rhonwen hesitantly comes towards him and Jaskier is suddenly encompassed by a terrifying rage. His mouth tries to curl back into a snarl that bares his teeth, and his eyebrows furrow, and he has to pointedly relax them into a neutral position. His heart hammers against his lungs and ribs. He can't breathe. His throat is tight, clogged up with a powerful want to _scream._ To tear Rhonwen apart with nothing but words. 

His hands are still numb and fucked up from his tree-hopping, yet there is that distinct urge to ball them into fists. He's ready to pummel her so bad. He's so ready to stain her cheeks red with the memory of his slaps; he's so ready pull at her hair like his had been, to pull it out one by one for every grievance she had caused him and _more_ —or reminding him of the Witcher with that contorted face of hers. 

_He doesn't understand._

He doesn't understand how he can hate his parents so much and yet be exactly like them. He doesn't understand how he can claim he cares for Rhonwen and have _this_ , this irrational rage and violence, be the way he shows it. 

Jaskier doesn't want to hurt her. He doesn't want to hurt any of his friends. He doesn't want to hurt the dryads, he didn't want to hurt Foltest or Ostrit even though they deserved it— _oh, gods, he practically killed a man_ —he doesn't want to hurt Roach or the Witcher, but it seems he can't stop himself. 

Is he cursed? Is he cursed to be angry and violent and to cause pain to everyone around him? 

" _Abwuh?_ " says Rhonwen, so sweetly and innocently, holding out her hands as though tied at the wrists. She places them gently on his raised knee. That constipated-concern expression she borrowed from the Witcher is still on her face. 

Tears of frustration well up in Jaskier's eyes. 

Why is he like this? _Why, why, why?_

Rhonwen reaches out towards him, towards his face. He shakes his head. No, no, he has to stay farther away from her. That rage of his hasn't subsided, hasn't disappeared, even as he hates himself for feeling it. He'll hurt her more if she comes closer. He doesn't want to. He _can't_ let himself do that, and yet...he might. 

Rhonwen—wonderful, sweet, darling Rhonwen—puts her hands back on his knee. She rests her chin on them, looking him straight in the eyes. Jaskier hopes she doesn't see into his soul with that searching gaze. He doesn't want her to see how rotten it is. 

There's a groan of pained effort to his side. 

Before even thinking of checking up on the dryad, Jaskier kicks off. He scoops Rhonwen into his arms and crushes her to his chest, angling his body so it stands as a barrier between the dryad and her. He steps further away from the dryad. Once in safer territory, he side-eyes in her direction. 

The dryad has apple-red hair, rootlike and thick, dappled with sticks, moss, and leaves. Her skin hurts Jaskier's eyes the more he looks at it—rather than a solid block of color, it is an ever-shifting texture of brown bark, darker and lighter spots changing place with every move. 

She wears clothing more refined than he expected. A beige leather vest covered with tightly knit rows of ivory-colored sticks, under which she wears a green, billow-sleeved tunic. The strap across her chest is attached to an empty quiver. 

Jaskier spies a red feather stuck in-between the sticks that make up her vestlike breastplate. _A whistle and a thud._ Both of Jaskier's girls gone in a single instant. 

〈I'm sorry,〉 he whispers in Elder. He tries to shake the dizziness out of his head, to flush the rage and fear away. 〈She gets prote—a-are you okay?〉 

The dryad halts her attempt to get up. She freezes, both hands and one knee on the ground. Her head turns, and from beyond the red roots that grow from her head, Jaskier can see a single, green-gold eye glare arrows and daggers at him. He swallows. Rhonwen growls low in her throat. It sparks a new wave of rage and fear within him. Jaskier doesn't know what to do. 

He nearly sobs when the dryad hisses at them both, black lips curled into a hateful grimace. 

〈Are you with _them?_ 〉 

〈I don't know who you are referring to, so I would assume no?〉 

Jaskier really, truly wants to slap himself in the face for such a blunder. That would require letting go of Rhonwen, however. A bad idea, considering her squirming and the murderous intent oozing from her tiny body and its stretched limbs. 

〈 _That druid,_ 〉 says the dryad with utter rage and disgust. 

〈No, I swear, I'm not,〉 says Jaskier, shaking his head. 〈I don't know any druids. Lady of the Forest, are you badly injured?〉 

〈Are you lying to me?〉 

Jaskier bites back the urge to scream in frustration. He opens his mouth to answer when an arrow buries itself into the ground between them. He flinches away, catching his breath. Rhonwen _barks_ strangely and whips around in Jaskier arms to look in a direction towards the woods. The red-haired dryad stands. The red of her hair does not stop at her forehead, instead encompassing her eyes, temples, nose and ears, without reaching her lips. Coupled with her piercing eyes, she looks crazed on bloodlust. 

Jaskier catches glimpse of one of her hands on a dagger, strapped to her thigh, the tunic cut asymmetrically to allow for it. Jaskier hadn't noticed the dryad move to do that. 

With dread in his heart, Jaskier turns his attention to the woods, where both Rhonwen and the red-haired dryad are looking. 

It takes a few moments, but eventually a figure emerges. She bears a vest of ivory sticks like the red-haired dryad, but underneath it, she wears a dappled cloak with a hood. Made out of various strips of green fabrics, it blends with the shifting bark texture on her skin. The hood and hem of the cloak have thin tassels, mossy-colored and of varying lengths, sweeping just above the forest floor. The same kind of tassel fabric covers the dryad's entire arms, making her brisk walk in their direction intimidating with its elegance. 

Like the red-haired dryad, she has a quiver full of arrows. There is a longbow strapped around her body. Multiple satchels and daggers hang around the belt on her vest. 

〈Do not fear, grovekeeper,〉 says the dryad, voice rough and deep, much less human than the red-haired one's. It warbles her words, sounding almost like a crow's call. 〈He has come in peace. Mother wishes to see him.〉 

Which must mean something special to the grovekeeper, for her face turns from stone to shock. 

〈What would Lady Eithné want with a human?〉 the grovekeeper exclaims, gesturing angrily towards Jaskier. Rhonwen swings out an arm from Jaskier's hold to swipe at her. Like she expected to swat a projectile out of the air. Jaskier clutches her tighter, whispering at her to calm down. The undercurrent of rage adds a sharper tone to it than he wants. 

〈You shall know once the business is attended to,〉 answers the cloaked dryad. 

On her way past a tree, she reaches out and breaks a fruit off its tree. It glows in her hand, molten, liquid gold swirling inside it. The grovekeeper bows her head. She holds out her hands, together at the wrist, and the cloaked dryad gently places what looks to be a particularly big and round kiwi fruit in the grovekeeper's palms. 

The grovekeeper rolls the fruit into one hand. She brings out her knife and cuts a single stripe through the skin, slowly starting to take the green flesh of the fruit out. Meanwhile, the cloaked druid approaches Jaskier. 

Rhonwen's growl grows louder with each step the dryad takes. Jaskier hastily takes a hold of her rogue arm and tucks it between their bodies before crushing the girl against him again. 

〈I am Morénn,〉 says the dryad. She pulls her hood back without taking it off. Without the shadow looming over her face, Jaskier first notices the dryad's washed-out, milky eyes and hair like silver cotton. It didn't look like roots, unlike the grovekeeper. It seemed closer in texture to moss, and it was cropped quite close to her head. It fades like veins into her face. 

〈I am Jaskier. This is Rhonwen.〉 Jaskier nods at the dryad—at Morénn. 

〈Tell me, what have you brought this Rhonwen here for?〉 

Not wanting to screw this up, Jaskier gives himself some time to formulate his answer. Behind Morénn, the grovekeeper eats the flesh of the kiwi-like fruit without damaging more of the skin. Every bite sends flashes of pale pink magic through her veins, accumulating at her wounds and closing them. 

〈I—uh, I hope she can become one of you.〉 

〈Why?〉 asks Morénn, stepping closer to him. Rhonwen's forehead knocks against his chin when she tucks her head protectively in front of his throat. 〈Parents usually are not quick to give up their children. Not unless they are sickly, and the parents certain this sickness will kill us.〉 

Jaskier shakes head as much as Rhonwen's antics allow. 

〈No, not like that,〉 he blurts, stumbling over his syllables. 〈Ah, the—um, a cursebreaking attempt didn't work out well for her. I'd hoped that as a dryad, she'd have a new shot at life. She'd have a family or, at the very least, a community.〉 

Morénn's dark lips stretch into an unkind smile. 

〈I see why Mother wants to speak to you, then,〉 she says. In the blink of an eye, she appears right before Jaskier, almost of the same height. Rhonwen tucks herself tighter against Jaskier's neck, glaring holes through the dryad, hissing. 〈You realize the price you might pay here, yes?〉 

〈Yes.〉 

〈Are you willing to pay it?〉 

_No._

〈Yes.〉 

Morénn nods and turns, clearly meaning for Jaskier to follow her. He stands rooted to the spot. His mind instinctually tries to figure out a means of escape, even though he knows there is nothing he can do about his fate, now. 

He mechanically marches after Morénn. Her hood shifts, falling forward once more. When they walk past the grovekeeper, Jaskier notices that she is perfectly healed, sans dried blood still stuck to the side of her neck and ankles. She walks not far from them, going towards the tree from which Morénn took the fruit. The skin of it is still mostly intact, with only that single slit running through it. 

The grovekeeper raises the skin to the branch from which Morénn took it. Small tendrils emerge from it. They twist like a dancer to attach themselves to one of the darkener 'ends' of the fruit, twirling themselves to for a connection between it and the branch. The grovekeeper lets go of the reattached fruit. It begins to fill out, it seems. The grovekeeper runs a single finger down the opening of the skin. It knit itself back together, closed and healthy. 

A whole new fruit, almost fully ripe within a passing moment's notice. 

Even Rhonwen is amazed, if that little awed _'wohoop_ ' is anything to go by. Jaskier ducks his chin and presses a kiss to her forehead, silently apologizing to her. His one of his hands is at her shoulders, so he uses its thumb to trace soothing circles into her skin. 

_He yelled._

_He almost hit her._

Jaskier stifles the sobs at the back of his throat. His body tingles painfully, as though ants have turned his veins into their homes, and he can feel several muscles cramp. In his wrists, at the back of his shins, in his thighs, chest, neck. The skin on his scalp seems _tight_ and _stiff_ , as if scalded with hot water. 

And he's still so _angry._

He doesn't want to be angry. He's terrified. 

Morénn stops by the edge of the grove. Jaskier wades towards her slowly, looking around to distract himself so he doesn't break Rhonwen by hugging her too tightly. 

The tall blooms that have been trampled pulsate with pink light and stand again. Jaskier sees that the grovekeepers red hair seems to have extended, going past her waist, hips, knees, hidden by the flowers, but Jaskier is fairly sure the tips of the root-hair are buried into the earth. Pink charges flash from the grovekeeper's head, down the red hair, and into the earth, healing all that needs it. 

As Jaskier walks, he can feel the flowers he treads into the earth stand back up. They tickle the backs of his legs. It would probably be even more beautiful at night, when the pink light could truly illuminate the darkness and stand out. 

When Jaskier reaches Morénn, she holds out two normal-sized kiwi fruits. Rhonwen seems to have calmed, and makes no sound or movements when Jaskier takes one arm off of her to take the fruits. He lets the kiwis lay in his hands, not sure what he is supposed to do. Morénn fishes out a knife from nowhere and cuts the kiwis open, skinning them with care, but allowing the skin to break, unlike the grovekeeper. 

Jaskier shows Rhonwen how to eat the kiwi while Morénn buries the skins in the underbrush. The taste is acidic and sweet, just a little bitter, but despite face-clenching, it's refreshing to eat something so rich in flavour after weeks of jerky, bread, potatoes, and doe. Rhonwen winces as she eats. Her eyes are shut so tight the already pale skin turns as white as newly-fallen snow. The many sounds she makes while eating hint that she hates every moment of it, but she dutifully eats it all just as Jaskier does. 

The tingling of his body changes, focusing on his face, hands, and knees, where most of his cuts and wounds were. 

_Wait_. Wait, wait, wait. _Hold up._

Jaskier gently sets Rhonwen on the ground. She stuffs her bloodied fingers into her mouth, seemingly delighting in the taste of blood. Morénn doesn't seem to have any particular reaction about it, and, well, Jaskier is used to the Witcher's diet, so he long since stopped seeing a difference between blood and food. 

With his hands now free, Jaskier pulls up his sleeves and takes a look at his arms. Despite the pink light not having yet faded, Jaskier can see clearly just how different his wounds are. The burn is raised and darker than the rest of his skin, but its _smooth_ , not harsh and coarse and blistered. The worse cuts, where the skin charred and melted, look like the aftermath of mediocre stitches, but are a healthy pink. The rest alternate between being pale and slightly raised, and flat as a pancake, a few shades darker than his natural complexion. 

〈Interesting scars,〉 says Morénn. Jaskier chokes on his breath and jerks his sleeves back down. 〈I've never seen such clean cuts in such a place. How'd you get them?〉 

Jaskier couldn't tell if the dryad was being facetious or not. 

〈That's—uh—〉 his voice rises by two octaves, 〈—that's personal?〉 

The dryad shrugs. 

〈Very well,〉 she says. 〈Now come, Lileabhoinne is near.〉 

Morénn turns and starts walking away. Jaskier curses under his breath. He places a guiding hand on Rhonwen's shoulder and they both follow her. Rhonwen, now out of whatever protective bloodlust she'd fallen into, has that same straight-backed, shoulders-tight posture from when the Witcher had taken her to the side at the abandoned campsite. The effect was wildly diminished with her interest in the surrounding flora. It was surprisingly difficult to keep her grabby hands from breaking apart every bush they walked past. 

〈What is lee-leh-li— _Lile-abh-oinne,_ actually?〉 Jaskier asks eventually. 

〈A river,〉 answers Morénn. 

She divides a bush that looks like overgrown leaves, making a pathway for Jaskier to walk through. He takes slow steps towards her, tiredness weighing him down, when Rhonwen jumps under his hand. He freezes. Rhonwen rips herself away from his hand. She seems alarmed, but not angry like before. Morénn has stopped and stiffened, too. Their flitting eyes and whipping heads tell Jaskier they're sensing something he is blind to. 

Rhonwen crouches, hands on the floor, and she sticks her ear close to the ground. 

Jaskier hears a gasp and then he's tackled away. His lower back slams into the curling roots of a nearby tree, and the momentum pushes him further, bringing his legs over his head. Rocks, dust, and dirt rain onto his back. He falls to the side, body weak and in shock with the pain. Rhonwen, who had tackled him, surges out from underneath him. 

There's a _click-click-click_ of a wooden carapace bumping against itself. Morénn curses something in Elder while Jaskier's vision swims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who want to know what the 'game references' are:  
> \- van Rogh is an in-game painter, clearly inspired by van Gogh (and more...)  
> \- the man that paints animals and landscapes for his paralysed daughter is a quest-giver (Blood and Wine expansion)
> 
> Also....I have a question for y'all: why in the world do canon druids use wooden weapons, when they refuse to cut down trees and to them a fallen tree is a gravesite? Like...where they getting that wood from man??
> 
> [I'm trying to get more use out of my tumblr, so come check out @maarchi on there sometime! (maarchi.tumblr.com)]


	16. The Road to Lileabhoinne (+Announcement)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hello, after a long time of nothing. My apologies for disappearing off of the face of the earth, I was not having a good time mentally speaking, and after that, I felt ashamed? For not doing anything? So I was terrified of posting and answering asks. I tried to participate in that Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, but that didn't go well either. Anyways! Here's _two_ updates. 
> 
> Firstly: new chapter! It's un-beta'ed, so mistakes and awkward sentences can be expected, but I hope it's enjoyable regardless.
> 
> Secondly: I've realized that there's a lot I would have loved to add to the beginning of the fic, and that a lot of what I wrote was rushed and a little incompetently written. I especially didn't have a good grasp on 'repetition' as a literary device. I don't _hate_ it, but I'm not satisfied with it either. So I've decided to do what I've seen some other fic authors do, and rewrite the whole thing. *This* work will be left up, but it will not be updated. Of the rewrite, I have the first chapter written at around 13k, and I've started on the second one. I will begin posting the rewrite once I have two more chapters finished, just so I have a little buffer for when I hit roadblocks. Once the rewrite will be posted, I'll update this place with an announcement, and remove all tags, but the work itself will not be deleted.
> 
> I'll try to be a bit more active on my tumblr (@maarchi, marchi.tumblr.com) and post some updates on the WIP there :)

Everything is both too quick and too slow. One second feels like one hour, yet his mind is lagging behind, uncomprehending. 

Rhonwen is charging the centipede with a powerful howl. Her scarf flap behind her, ripped and frayed at the edges. The centipede throws its flat head around. It swings at her like a hammer— _no, an axe_. Rhonwen is quick and swift, but she's no striga anymore. She leaps to avoid the centipede's bark-covered head and lands on its carapaced vertebrae. The critter's movement sweeps Rhonwen off her feet. Jaskier feels his move. 

He stumbles blindly towards Rhonwen. He's far too slow to catch her before she hits the ground with a high-pitched groan. 

〈What are you doing?!〉 Morénn screams from—from above? 

Jaskier forgets all about the centipede for a moment and looks up. The great tree is a birch, with dark branches and bright leaves. Morénn is not there nor the tree beside it. 

〈Move!〉 screams her disembodied voice again. Jaskier follows it, sees her swishing tassels and ivory vest high in the canopy of a dark tree. Her face is obscured, but in her hands she wields a bow and arrow, and her voice is hoarse. 〈 _Move,_ dammit!〉 

Jaskier doesn't move insomuch as he _gets_ moved. Rhonwen's bumpy, boney fingers slide between his back and his belt. With all her might and a grunt of effort, she pulls him to the ground just as a dark shadow passes over them. 

It's almost as if the dryadic magic of Morénn and her fruits has been reversed. Everything aches again in such a familiar way—his face, his hands, torn apart and cut to shreds, and bruises blooming around his torso from the branches and twigs that stabbed into him. For a second, he thinks he imagined all of that. He thinks the red-haired grovekeeper has him under a spell. Or that Morénn's fruit were, perhaps, hallucination-inducing, or put him under a spell. 

He thinks nothing is real and that time doesn't exist, but then his eyes turn skyward. There's a green glow and _click-click-click_ of the centipede's twitching legs. 

A primal fear takes over, something so sudden his heart rattles a skipped beat against his ribs. Something hot as fire fills his veins. Every muscle tenses but he can't move. Can't bend his legs, can't take a breath, can't do more than let his eyes water. He knows it is only pain that's coming, that he's not going to actually be hurt, but he's _terrified._

He doesn't want pain. Not like _this._

Jaskier's hands fumble their way through the moss and through the earth. The miserable effort is of no help. His vision swims—nothing exists but bright, bright green. Jaskier's chatter and his breath hitches as the green glow makes everything else fade away. His boddy flattens against the ground, trying to put more distance between itself and the pain in the only way it can. 

All he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears and his heart hammering against his ribs. 

His world turns dark as the venom splashes against his legs. 

Hot, seething pain shots through him like lightning. His scream mixes with another, though he does not hear it—he _can't_ hear anything, paralyzed in body and mind. 

A weight falls onto him, something pliant but not soft enough to completely conform around his face. It crushes his nose and caves enough into his open, screaming mouth to prevent him from closing it. The taste and smell are equally pungent. Old blood, rotten meat, horseshit and hay, and...onion. 

Like Geralt. But Geralt is not here. 

_Rhonwen's wearing his shirt as a dress._

The girl whimpers out a high-pitched whine above his head. It's partially obscured by the ear-piercing shriek of the scolopendromorph, something like a kettle left on the fire for too long and the vengeful growl of a rabid bear. 

Jaskier's mind blanks. His body moves, thankfully, without his input. For once the loss of control is _good._ One of his arms throws itself over Rhonwen and the rest of him uses the momentum to turn onto his front, leveraging himself on his knees. There's a thundercloud of pain in his head, its bright flashes blinding him. His body moves by touch and instinct alone, barreling forward. 

Jaskier forces his way through an array of bushes, takes sharp twig to the face and stains his clothes with raspberry juice. Rhonwen whines and whimpers in his arms, and his heart breaks, almost blocking out the physical pain from his wet, venom-covered legs. He can feel the green glow spread through his body, slowly but surely leaking into his blood. 

Morénn is safe in her tree. She has her longbow and arrows, likely a bunch of knives, and whatever she keeps in those pouches. The dryad is in her element, in her territory. Jaskier feels not even a little guilty for running away without caring for her. Morénn is safe in her tree. On the ground, Jaskier and Rhonwen are not, and neither are capable of climbing shit right now. 

Jaskier zig-zags through the forest and cuts corners around trees. When he slows, he imagines the centipede emerging from the ground like a reaper—can see the flash of glowing green as he saw it just seconds ago, pictures it covering Rhonwen again, and suddenly, he can go just a little faster for just a little longer. 

Rhonwen tried to save him by dooming herself to so much pain. 

Jaskier tightens his hold on her, the body _his_ once again. His arms scream in protest, tired and bruised. The venom on Rhonwen's little body works its way through the many layers of cloth between them. Jaskier grits his teeth. He has to go on. 

The pain won't last forever. 

He just has to go on. 

_He promised_. He promised himself and Geralt, and indirectly, he promised Roach. 

Fuck. _Fuck!_ What if he doesn't find Roach? What if she'd fallen victim to another one of these actual-tree-creatures? 

He can't think that. Can't let himself consider that a possibility. Rhonwen is alive. Roach _must_ be alive. Between their things seemingly strapping themselves to her when they're not looking and her magically appearing out of nowhere when Geralt calls, she should be alright. 

Maybe he can do that, too. 

Jaskier never tried calling for her. It has taken him a few years to manage to win her friendship and the honor of touching her. Many sugar cubes, blooms and apples have been sacrificed. Perhaps there's no point. But there _might_ be. 

Jaskier whistles loud and clear, mimicking Geralt's usual pattern. Rhonwen's head hits the bottom of his jaw, and the poison that hasn't disappeared into thin air yet clings to him. He whimpers. His eyes shut tight. They sting. Why do they sting? 

A root curled above the ground like a claw catches on his foot. Jasker shoots his arm out, finds neither a tree nor the forest floor. Stumbling forward, his hand sinks into finely ground earth, cold and moist and sloping. It moves with him, offering no support. 

Rhonwen screams at the back of her throat, hot breath tickling Jaskier's ear as they slam into the slope. Jaskier barely notices Rhonwen fall out of his arms when they begin to roll down the hill. 

There's no up and there's no down. There's only dirt, _everywhere._ In his eyes, in his nose, in his mouth, sticking to his clothes, cuts, and sweat. Every new lump that makes its way into his ears deafens Rhonwen's screams and the chirping of birds. Jaskier tries to push himself up, tries to catch the ground under his feet and gracelessly stagger the rest of the way down—but it does _nothing_. He loses a shoe and plummets down harder. 

Suddenly, there's no earth under him. Suddenly, he's falling. _Truly_ falling. 

A bush catches him before the ground does. None of the little twigs are powerful enough to break through his clothes, none are so strong so as to spear him. Instead, they cut his face, his hands. They rip his skin through his pants and sock. Thorns and broken sprigs prod him from every angle. Every shiver and whimper that runs through him slides his skin against them, forming new cuts and exacerbating fresh bruises. Jaskier whimpers and his eyes water. 

"Roach…" he grumbles, trying to whistle again. Nothing. 

Jaskier sniffles. He flutters his eyes back open, the small leaves of the bush thankfully shielding him from the bright light. Jaskier knows even less about bushes than about trees, and he has no idea what this one could possibly be. He hopes the cold liquid at the back of his neck and head are squished berries. A deep groan forces its way out of his mouth. Slowly, he catches up with his body. He's sore, he's in pain. His legs are burning without flames, and his entire body throbs to the beat of his heart. 

There's mud stuck to his face, clinging between his fingers. It's drying quick, warming against his skin and cracking with the slightest twitch. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath. 

_The centipede might be following them still._

The bush's thin branches creak under his weight as he turns to his side. First, one breaks, under hip hips. Then another, and another, until they are either snap with a loud _crack!_ or bend out of the way. Jaskier snaps his eyes shut and whines when a thorn catches on his forehead and cuts through his eyebrow. 

Eventually, he slides to the ground. He can faintly hear Rhonwen. Jaskier blinks, shakes his head. Dirt comes flying out of his ears, but not all of it, and it mutes the sounds around him. Can he hear her because she's screaming bloody murder, or because she's close by? What if she's being attacked? What if she's in too much pain to save herself? 

Jaskier's heart hitches up into his throat and makes him choke on his own breath and spit, coughing up dirt and dust. He braces a bloody hand against the ground. It's a blur of red, brown, and blue—and completely _useless._ The gentlest of pressures turns it into a white-hot torch of pain, from the tip of his fingers and through his wrist to his elbow. He's so tired. He has never been so aware of his body's weight as much as now. It's like he's made of stone. Like he's a little sack woven with rotten cotton, filled with rocks, the coffin of a little black cat about to be thrown into a freezing river. 

Something whimpers, and Jaskier thinks it just might be him. 

Does he even have legs anymore? 

He can't feel them. The fresh poison has been effectively ripped off of him during the fall, but the old one is in him, still. In his muscles, his bones, his blood. It's taken his legs and turned them to putty, to nothingness, for Jaskier can feel nothing but pain below his waist. His stomach is slowly but surely turning to an aching mess, like his throat, collarbone and arms. 

He can't move at all. 

What if Rhonwen isn't alright? 

This place was supposed to help her, to save her—let her begin anew, the pain of her short life forgotten and lost to echoes of time. Instead, Jaskier has turned this into a torture. That's the only thing Jaskier is good at. Making things go from bad to worse. He's separated Geralt and Roach, the one duo he could not imagine being away from each other for long. He's attempted to take responsibility over Rhonwen, and all he's given her is fear and blood. Not to mention, Roach is lost, possibly injured or dying or dead, and when Geralt discovers that, he's going to skin Jaskier alive. Jaskier will fucking _help him,_ because that's the least he deserves for fucking things up so phenomenally. 

He needs Roach. He _needs_ her close. He can't go on alone and he can't fail Geralt like this. 

"Roach!" Jaskier coughs out again, teary-eyed and desperate. His lips pucker up to whistle, but all that comes out is dirt, spit and a coughing fit. "Roach, please. Please, please, please…" 

Jaskier can barely hear the skipping beat of his heart through the racket his lungs make. His vision swims. Tears cut clean rivers down his cheeks. 

"Rho-Rhonwe- _augh_ -en…" he sputters, once again failing to get up. Little stones and splinters dig into his palm. The cough dislodges the last bits of moist dirt from Jaskier's ears. 

It's not his heart that he was hearing. 

Something soft and peach-fuzzy tickles at his neck. Jaskier screams and flails when the thing bites at his hood and _lifts_ him. It takes him up, up, up and away, dragging his body along the bush and its branches and thorns. Jaskier wails, only barely noticing the new cuts on his legs. 

The thing drops Jaskier face-first onto the grassy ground. It takes a few steps back—and it sounds so strange, so familiar. Jaskier lifts his forehead off the ground, using his chin for leverage. Gray hooves with weathered shoes, specks of white fading into rich chestnut. 

Roach clops on closer. Her gentle nose nuzzles at Jaskier's face, pushing insistently. He slowly wraps his hands around her big head, petting her and taking great care not to tug at her mane—she's a bit sensitive about it. 

"I love you so much," Jaskier whispers into the short hair on her long face, holding on for dear life as Roach lifts him to his feet. His knees are weak and crumble under his full weight, sending him stumbling into Roach's broad chest. With his arms still around her neck, Jaskier gathers himself up, step by step, trying to stand. He doesn't feel his legs and has only his sight to orient himself with. These might not even be his legs, though he recognizes the boots and pants, and the deckled hem of his houppelande. 

His legs don't feel like tangible limbs. They're more like open nerve endings grilled over a bonfire. Not as painful as before, when the venom was still fresh. 

Rhonwen bore the brunt of it. Is she doing better, too? 

_Where_ is she? 

Jaskier wobbles along Roach's neck and towards the bushes. She walks with him, slowly, and beelines it into a specific direction. Jaskier lets her lead. It's not far from the mess of a bush from which she lifted Jaskier. The bush is smaller yet sturdier, with few giant leaves. Roach grabs Rhonwen's limp body by the scarf. 

Jaskier falls to his knees with a whimper. He crawls forward, takes the girl into his arms. Roach does not leave their side like Jaskier half-expects her to. Her chin hits Jaskier's temple and her breath tickles the top of his head. Rhonwen is— _alive._ Her little chest rises and falls, breathing growing deeper when Jaskier takes off the scarf, which had tightened around her throat like a talon. Rhonwen is alive, but completely out of it, and covered with blood, dirt, and a thin layer of green liquid still clinging to her skin and saturating her clothes. 

Jaskier clings to her for a few minutes, catching his breath, letting the venom spread onto his shoulder. 

The pain feels far away. 

Roach drives her nose into his head again. She's right. They need to get up. Find a river, get clean. Maybe there's some purified water and alcohol in their bags to clean their wounds, though Jaskier isn't quite sure which vials Geralt took with him when they left. Jaskier knows, on some level, that Geralt probably took the bare essentials— _potions_ —just went, not taking the care to pack needles, poultices, or stitching yarn. He's both mad at Geralt for caring so little for himself, but also glad, because who knows how long it'll be before Morénn or some other dryad finds them? 

What if the other dryad wouldn't know Jaskier is _allowed_ to be in Brokilon? 

No, no. Mind on the task. Rhonwen and Roach are both with Jaskier and they're alive, and that's the only important thing right now. 

Find a body of water. Clean up. Clean wounds. Bandage or stitch them as necessary. 

He can do this. Hopefully. _Please._

Roach lets Jaskier hoist himself with his hand on her neck. 

"Okay, this is probably a dumb question, but, ah, did you happen upon a stream of sorts when you were away?" he asks the mare. He tries to walk forward, holding onto the reins just a bit too harshly, but Roach has none of it. She pulls and tugs with her head, almost ripping his arm out of its socket. Jaskier lets Roach do the thinking and the leading. Figures a horse would have more brains than him. 

It doesn't take long to get to a very thin stream. It's just slightly wider than Jaskier's foot is long, and the rippling water is clear, only slightly warping the pebbles underneath. Jaskier unearths a few clothing items, a wooden bowl, and medical supplies. Undressing Rhonwen isn't as difficult as he'd expect. She was swimming in the oversized clothing, anyway, so it fell off of her on its own. He lays her out on one of the furs and fashions his bloodied chemise into a rag—though only after rinsing it thoroughly in the stream. 

While gently wiping away the blood, Jaskier finds either very shallow cuts that shouldn't have bled as much as they seem to have, or thin stab wounds with tiny pieces of wood gathering at the edges. For each little rock, smeck of dirt, and splinter he removes, something new surfaces. Every wound slowly sews itself together. Smaller, tighter than before. The tunnels that the bush bore into Rhonwen's body heal until only a wrinkly, discolored patch is left. The smaller cuts fade into pale white, merging with her skin. 

Perhaps Geralt's sensitive eyes could pick them out. Jaskier definitely can't. 

_'Is this a good thing?'_ Jaskier wonders as he wraps belts around Rhonwen, trying to fold the ridiculously oversized cotton blouse around her body. Jaskier doesn't know if Rhonwen would have survived getting stabbed through the gut by a branch if she had been a normal girl. Would Jaskier have doomed her to death, if he hadn't first doomed her to living on the line between human and striga? 

And now he's taking her to become a dryad. 

Is that even possible? 

Jaskier doesn't know much about dryads, _truly_. The topic never came up with Geralt, who likely knows more. All he knows is that the dryads can take any woman, of any race that looks even remotely like humans, and turn them into one of their own. But how do they do it? 

Could the last vestiges of some amateur curses mess it up? 

Will the transformation kill her, or will the dryads, once they see that she is not the way they wanted? Will she live in suffering? Will she be treated like she belongs, or feel like she's been cast aside by the community she's meant to be a part of? 

Would it be kinder to have let her burn up in the sun? 

Jaskier slaps a hand over his mouth. The acidic burn of his stomach trying to wring itself out of his body through his throat recedes slowly, and he moves away slowly. Burning flesh. Heat of the flames. He can still remember them so clearly, almost as if they were there again. But he's not in pain, and Rhonwen is calm in her comatose sleep. It's far too difficult to imagine her as the striga again. Jaskier— _can't._ He knows that Rhonwen is the very same being that nearly tore him and Geralt to shreds in Old Vizima. He _knows,_ but he cannot comprehend the connection. It doesn't stick. It doesn't click into place. 

He leans on a tree and breathes in deeply. The acidic ache in his throat does not go away, but it lessens enough that he doesn't fear losing the meager contents of his stomach. 

Jaskier returns to Rhonwen's side and takes the dirty clothes away. The venom has mostly dissipated into thin air, very little of it dry and still clinging to the fabric. Jaskier barely feels the sting to his hands as he sets about undressing and cleaning the clothes. The venom hisses when it comes in contact with the water. Steam rises lazily and the water bubbles, and Jaskier almost loses the clothes when he flinches away from the heat. Eventually he reappropriates some spoons he finds in their saddlebags. 

There's the distinct feeling that, were he a woman and someone walked in on him, they'd accuse him of being some cruel witch, fingers pointing at the red-stained rags. He probably saw a painting like that. Witches, not quite sorceresses, have a fascinating history. 

Jaskier is about to fish out a shirt when something cold and rough touches his shoulder. He flings himself away with a choked yelp. Cold, dewy grass tickles his naked back. He brandishes the spoon by the bowl and jabs at the—the threat, the unknown, the _thing._

But the dryad is faster. She easily takes the handle in hand. Jaskier's brain catches up with his eyes. It's Morénn, thank _fuck._ She looks no worse for wear than when Jaskier first saw her, though the tassels attached to various parts of her cloak are more tangled and dirty with clay-like earth. Her face is mostly hidden by her hood, but what little Jaskier can see of her chin and lips, she is not very happy. 

〈You are very lucky, human,〉she growls. The corners of her mouth pull back with every word forced through grit teeth, showing off razor-sharp fangs. 〈Had there been more venom, and had you hurt our trees more than you already have, I would have killed you.〉 

〈I'm sorry,〉Jaskier whispers with a quivering hand. Morénn lets go of the spoon, and with the edge of her longbow she takes the dripping shirt out of the stream. It thankfully caught on a rock and hand swam too far away. 

Jaskier then realizes he has elected to wash their clothes naked. His eyes water as shame and embarrassment flushes through him. He sits back on his ass and bends his knees, keeping them close, hiding as much of himself as he can as he crawls backwards towards the saddlebags. He stares at the grass, and in the periphery of his vision, he sees his chest tremble to the beat of his heart. He didn't know a heart could actually stretch a rib, but _fuck,_ alright. 

Jaskier glances at Morénn, though he cannot tell why. He does not want to see her disgust. He knows his ribs can easily be counted through his skin, he knows his belly shouldn't be like a cave, and he knows his wobbly knees are not much unlike the knuckly, clunky joints of Rhonwen's mangled body. The dryad is more concerned with taking stock of Rhonwen's injuries. 

His first instinct is to fucking scream. His second is to shove the dryad, to slap her hands away from Rhonwen. The third is to start to cry, because Jaskier is far too scared of Morénn to protect Rhonwen. 

He dresses quickly. Jaskier himself doesn't carry many clothes. They're rarely in need of replacement, as they can just be mended with some needle, thread, and Geralt's skilled hands. So he throws on one of Geralt's shirts, a black blend of cotton and linen, with sleeves so big Jaskier could fit both arms in one. It doesn't look as ridiculously big as on Rhonwen, but he's not exactly filling them out. With a heavy heart, he sacrifices his only other pair of pants. One would think that green would fit into a forest well, but Jaskier couldn't help but feel that the green emerald hue just didn't mesh with the colors of the moss, grass or leaves. 

Like he was trying to be a part of the picture, but missed the mark. Obviously wrong at first glance, but without the realisation of _why._

Jaskier should just put on Geralt's pants. But that feels worse. They're not his, and he's not someone who lacks clothes like Rhonwen, and wearing Geralt's shirt is, frankly, pushing it. Especially since he could choose to endanger his finer set of clothing, like he has with the pants. 

But the big shirt smells like the man, dammit. Like blood and gore, like hay and horse, like chamomile and onion, and it's comforting. Jaskier fists a hand into the fabric and holds on. It's so childish. It's so stupid. But his heartbeat no longer distends his ribs, so he leaves it like that, and walks to kneel beside Rhonwen. 

Morénn is first to speak. 

〈She seems well-healed.〉 

Jaskier does not know if he is meant to answer, so he swallows the bile slowly filling his mouth. He stares at Rhonwen's face and chides himself for not catching a speck of dirt earlier when he was cleaning. 

〈Useful. I see you apes are good for something.〉Morénn rises, the tassels of her cloak swishing to graze at Rhonwen's limp arm. 〈Pack up.〉 

Jaskier follows the command with quivering hands and shaking knees. Roach is rather unhelpful, as she stands closely by a bush, keeping far from the dryad. It takes multiple trips to strap everything onto her properly. Rhonwen stays unconscious through it all and when Jaskier gracelessly flings them both onto Roach's saddle, apologizing to the mare all the while. 

Morénn keeps watch. It sounds better than 'stands there doing nothing'. Jaskier hopes there is a reason for it. One that isn't 'couldn't care less'. Not like he's going to comment on it. He has Rhonwen and Roach to take care of, and—Morénn could kill him so easily. 

Fuck. _Fuck,_ why does the world throw the best of things onto his path only when he can't have them? 

No matter. 

Jaskier and Rhonwen are seated on Roach and Morénn takes them through Brokilon again. Despite her apparent dislike towards the dryad, Roach follows her without Jaskier's input, and ignores him when he almost nods off in the saddle only to spring back up again. He pets her a lot to make up for that. It's not really much, so he hopes he'll have time to do it properly later. He'll try to clean her shoes, he'll brush her down, ask a dryad to get her some apples and pears and carrots and she'll be able to graze without all of the tack on. 

The way to _Lileabhoinne_ is winding and long. It circles around a massive marsh that greets them with a choir of frogs. At some point, they walk into a patch of the forest that seems almost corrupted. The lush greenery is replaced by a pale mist that hugs the ground, and the trees are tall and barren. Almost like early winter, suspended in time and space. Jaskier has to get off of Roach to help her along the uneven terrain. Rhonwen wakes up as they walk through a massive clearing of cobalt blue flowers that reach Jaskier's knees. The girl takes cover underneath the blooms. Jaskier can't track her at all. She barely moves a flower despite their density and she's unnaturally quiet. Morénn's eyes follow her movement, _somehow_ , and Jaskier realizes that Rhonwen's running in circles around them. Once they leave the clearing, Jaskier gets off of Roach, and Rhonwen climbs him to perch on his shoulders. 

The first sign they're nearing the river is not the sound of rushing water nor the way the roots that weave themselves into raised pedestals for the trees to sit on. 

It's the blood. 

The scent hits Jaskier first. Rotten and metallic, and it reminds him of the corpses in Triss' house. The mold, the paleness, the cold, the burning sweetness which tickles the back of his throat and irritates his stomach. Rhonwen is delighted, sniffing eagerly. As if she couldn't get enough of it. Morénn doesn't react. Her face stays impassive even as blood clings to her bare feet. Jaskier doesn't want to see. He does not want to think about what had happened here to kill all these people. 

Rhonwen struggles in his grasp, arms reaching towards the bodies. Her eyes twinkle gleefully and she gnashes her teeth at the sight of an exposed ribcage. Jaskier's shoes are wet. He pretends it's water. 

Roach allows him to stick close to her side. She doesn't protest when he hides his face into her shirt coat so he doesn't vomit. Sometimes, she'll nudge him along when he slows, or shove and pull at him so he doesn't step into a pile of fresh meat. Morénn shows no regard for the dead. It's almost as if she was going out of her way to tread through open stomach cavities. The squelching sends sharp shivers down Jaskier's back. Whilst they walk through the bloody battlefield, the _massacre,_ Morénn bends down to rip arrows out of the bodies. She places them calmly in her quiver. The fletched feathers make a rainbow. 

The river is worse. 

Red stains the water as far as Jaskier can see. Dryads of all shapes and sized drag human bodies from the grass and into the water, where gray-skinned women with webbed fingers feast upon them. Dozens of lily pads as big as Roach are loaded up with bones and uneaten, mutilated heads. When Jaskier looks to the side, he sees two dryads that look like sentient poplars place the remains of their sister beneath the woven roots of a willow tree. The roots move like tentacles, wrapping themselves around the corpse. Like an embrace. The tree lowers itself back to the ground, but there is no sound of crushed bone. Instead, the bark moves. It shifts and ripples. Its ridges and wedges come together in the shape of a sleeping face. 

It opens its eyes. They're naught but empty sockets, holes dug into the trunk. The willow bends and shifts. Some of its branches come down to the two dryads standing by the willow's side, tenderly stroking their cheeks. The others take hold of still-bleeding cadavers and launch them into the river. 

No matter where Jaskier aimed his eyes, all he saw was the bloodbath. 

Rhonwen successfully dislodged herself from his arms with a shriek. Jaskier stood as though he was holding her still, frozen. This—this was— 

〈What the fuck, 〉 Jaskier mumbles. 〈What the fuck? W-w-what is—I don't understand. Morénn. What's this? What the _fuck_ is this?〉 

Coming back to himself, Jaskier rips Rhonwen away from an unrecognizable pile of flesh and shattered bone. Morénn chuckles. Jaskier glares at her. Her form swims in his eyes, swaying and fading into little but colors. Pain blooms behind in his head and down his neck. Roach offers her shoulder to lean on so he doesn't lose his balance. 

〈It is war,〉 says Morénn. 〈What else could it be?〉 

〈A slaughter,〉 says Jaskier. He hugs Rhonwen tighter. She stops struggling, instead making another one of her confused little noises. 

〈It is that, too,〉 Morénn shrugs. The smile upon her face is blissfully serene. Like this was her true home, like this was where she thrived and wanted to be. Surrounded by blood and death. She makes a come-hither gesture at him with her finger. 

〈Come on. We must get to Duén Canell. It's time to go.〉


End file.
